Does It Amuse You To Torture Me?
by Basscop69
Summary: Chuck and Blair historical AU. "I've an insatiable craving inside me that consumes everything and makes me regard the sufferings and joys of others only in relation to me." Based on Lermontov's 'A Hero Of Our Time'
1. AN

I realise it's boring to start with an author's note...but I didn't want my chapters to be too long!

Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own any of Gossip Girl, but I also don't own the idea for this fiction - most of it comes from 'A Hero Of Our Time' by Lermontov.

The novel is set in 19th century Russia, and the main character Pechorin is a 'materialist' born into high society, who doesn't care about anyone except himself, and spends the entire time manipulating people for his own enjoyment - especially women, who he chases and then gets bored of. (Sound familiar?)

Pechorin comes close to loving 'the only woman who's ever understood him and all his unhealthy desires' - but ultimately, he doesn't care enough about her, because he meets her too late, and thinks she's weak because she's not as clever as he is.

So Chuck is based on Pechorin's character, but with one difference - he has Blair.

Also, I had to include the NJBC to a certain extent, even though in Lermontov's novel, Pechorin doesn't have any friends at all. Chuck Bass resemblances aside, I really would recommend reading the book because it's so good. Preferably a while after this fic though, so you don't realise quite how awful this is in comparison.

One final note (sorry) - I know the names Chuck and Blair aren't really that Russian...but I couldn't write Chuckski Bassovich with a straight face.

So apologies if the names don't fit!


	2. Chapter 1 : Youth

**"I spent my blighted youth in conflict with myself and the world. Fearing ridicule, I hid my best feelings deep within me, and there they died. Knowing the world and the mainstreams of society, I became adept at the art of living. Yet I saw that others were happy without art, enjoying for nothing the advantages I'd worked so hard to gain."** Pechorin, _A Hero Of Our Time_

The river Neva had frozen over, the ice easily thick enough to bear the weight of the multitude of Petersburg enjoying the national holiday. The wide expanse of grey ice was dotted with skating figures, muffled against the bitter cold. The broad stone steps that led out of the palace's balcony set a pathway straight down to the slippery surface.

The figures of four small children were gathered at the side. Two blonde heads whizzed further out, skimming over the ice with ease, while two dark heads were pressed by the granite, observing from a safe distance.

"Blair! Come on!" The blond boy breezed in front of her, barely stopping as he grabbed her mittened hands, dragging her along in his path.

She froze, unprepared, squeaking, "Nate!" as she was forced to move against her will.

And the balance threw her off; she jerked forwards, lost her footing, and slid so fast that the boy lost his grip, her hands slipping out of his because she was lighter than he'd expected - he'd forgotten that it wasn't her best friend, almost as tall as he was, that he was pulling.

She spun out and fell, landing so far that the other three children winced.

Nate and Serena were immediately at her side, tugging her up. She was furious and humiliated, and she refused to let anyone see.

"I don't need your help, thank you," she said icily, and righted herself, removing herself from their fumbling hands.

She gave Nate a look that made him duck his head, even from such a little girl, and he bit his lip, shamefaced.

She moved stiffly - as primly as one can, on ice - and rejoined Chuck at the side, head held high.

Only Chuck saw how her eyes burned briefly with hurt as Serena threw her arms around Nate, comforting him, before her air of indifference returned.

"Impressive," he smirked.

She pulled a face. "Nate is an oaf."

She hated being made a fool of. And _he_ hated it more than anything. She was doing what they always did, lashing out at anyone else to cover it up. Better to be thought mean than an idiot.

"Shouldn't talk about your husband like that."

She straightened her little tailored coat.

"We're not married yet. And I will make sure he learns some...poise, before our wedding."

It was a word she heard frequently from her mother, frequently used to berate her - _Where's your poise, girl? Your grace? _- so she felt it applied well to the boy who, in her opinion, needed telling off. Because _no one_ humiliated Blair.

They both watched as Nate and Serena wheeled around, hand in hand, laughing, without a care in the world.

"I wish I could be that stupid," Blair muttered, and Chuck laughed aloud. Blair Waldorf never failed to amuse him, and, oddly enough, it was Blair herself - and not just torturing her - that he enjoyed.

She glowered at him.

"Everyone hates clever people," she insisted. "It's not fair!"

"Stupid people are weak," he answered dismissively.

"Stupid people are happy," she argued.

He shrugged his little shoulders, still not broad enough yet to fill his overcoat. Still not broad enough to impress his father.

"Who wants to be _happy_?" His lip curled as watched Nate and Serena too, how their hair caught the sun, their eyes sparkling and open and their faces flushed. Everyone always believed them; they just radiated _goodness_ in a way that Chuck never would. And he didn't understand why.

Blair knew what he was talking about. She was probably the only person who did.

"You nearly made Nate cry," Chuck laughed. "See, stupid people are so weak. It's so easy to hurt them."

She tilted her head, considering.

"So if you're clever enough, no one can hurt you?" she confirmed. She got it.

He smiled quietly and nodded. It was what he'd learnt from his father. Bart was the cleverest man he'd ever seen, and he was invincible. You couldn't make people love you, little Chuck was slowly realising. But you could make them fear you. And he felt it was a secret Blair deserved to know - she was the only one who did.

"Exactly."

* * *

"Your dearly beloved is considering renouncing his fortune," Chuck announced idly as he dropped onto Blair's bed.

She paused, arching an eyebrow at him from her place in front of the mirror.

The eyebrow was arched because he was sprawled in her room, where he wasn't meant to be - not because of what he'd said. She went back to smoothing her curls.

"He considers renouncing his fortune at least twice a month," she responded, voice dry, eyes still critiquing her appearance - they both knew this, after all. "Before he remembers he'd have to sell his precious hunting mares. And there'd be no more parties. And he might have to move from Petersburg to the _provinces_." Her nose wrinkled at the thought, and Chuck smirked.

"He's serious this time," he said, face straight. "He won't let his father tell him what to do any more."

Blair pursed her lips, sliding a pin into place in her hair.

"It's hard for him," she reproached. "Having a father who adores and trusts him enough to let him inherit his political career."

Chuck's smirk twisted his face again.

"So hard for him."

His own father, after all, would never trust him with _his_ career. His inheritance, perhaps. But not the Bass family legacy.

She glanced at him, and laughed softly, under her breath.

"Are you jealous, Chuck?" she teased sweetly. She loved goading him, almost as much as he loved goading her. "Jealous that you're set so far beneath Nate, when you consider yourself so _superior_ to him?"

Chuck hid his grimace with ease.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I would never consider myself superior to anyone."

She scoffed at that.

He sighed mournfully.

"You see, any time I try to be modest, I'm accused of being deceitful. Is it any wonder I keep it to myself?"

His dark eyes were wide with wounded sincerity, locking with hers in their reflection.

"I speak the truth, and yet no one ever believes me. You always see evil traits in my face that I simply don't possess."

She rolled her eyes.

"How long have you been practicing that?" she enquired.

She rose from her vanity, turning to face him where he leaned, propped up on his elbows.

"I think you forget who you're talking to, Bass." She paused, tilting her head. "Is this your new way of preying on young women? Sympathy? Really, I should congratulate you."

He grinned back.

"Sympathy sinks its claws so _easily_ into their innocent hearts," he agreed. "How about this?" He put on a look of deep emotion, though she saw the eternal smirk that lingered underneath it, and he sat up to lean into her. "I was ready to love the whole world," he half whispered, voice dropping, "But no one understood me. So I learned to hate."

She couldn't resist a grin back. He really was perfect.

"You are a master of manipulation, Chuck Bass. Truly, I am proud."

"And you are my toughest critic," he answered, chuckling. He dropped back onto the bed, gazing up at her ornate ceiling. "But I know it all by heart. And that's the bore of it. Women love a tortured hero. It's too easy."

"You want a challenge," she mused.

He moved a little closer, letting his eyes rake over her without pretense. "Oh, I would _love_ a challenge," he murmured, reaching for her - because he would, not because he was expecting anything out of it.

Sure enough, she slapped him lightly away, and he laughed.

"I don't think my betrothed would approve, somehow."

What he loved about Blair was that she was almost as good at pretending as he was, but she never pretended with him. She knew better than to bother - they were equally aware of the other's intelligence. So many girls were about false art; feigning modesty, pretending to flirt - and it made them all the easier to manipulate, because they played so easily into his hands.

Because none of them knew how to play quite so well as Blair. She knew people, knew the weaker sides of human nature - how to slay someone with a word. Almost as well as he did.

"Blair! Are you dressed yet?"

They both winced as her mother's harsh voice whipped up the stairs.

Blair straightened first, checking her appearance for the final time, tucking her curls behind and fixing a sweet smile of her face.

"Coming, mother!"

Her eyes flickered to Chuck, and he got to his feet, lazily brushing his own suit, and offered his arm.

"May I escort you, mademoiselle?"

She rolled her eyes as she slipped her arm through his.

"Nate had better attend," she warned in an undertone as they exited her room.

"Don't fret," he smirked. "His mother will have him dressed and turned out. And then we can remind him, again, why he can't disown himself from his family."

"I'm tempted to leave this one to you this time," she informed him. "What is your function as best friend if not to keep him occupied?"

"It_ is_ a problem when he starts thinking," Chuck agreed, sighing.

Their conversation was cut short as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Blair! _What_ is taking so long?"

And then they were faced with an imposing, disapproving Eleanor, who took Chuck in with narrowed eyes.

He disarmed her with a smooth smile - because women could never resist Chuck Bass, even if men tended to loathe him - kissing her hand.

"Always a pleasure, madame."

And she forgot to be annoyed that he had been upstairs, unchaperoned, with her daughter. It was Chuck, after all

"Come along, Blair," she snapped. She was already leaving.

Blair exchanged an eye roll with Chuck, and he led her out after her mother.

"Save me a dance?" he murmured into her ear as they left, and she shook her head in amused defeat.

* * *

**Please review? In principle, I don't like CB historical fanfics, but I have read some amazingly written ones. So I really hope this isn't a complete failure. Please tell me if it's worth continuing! **


	3. Chapter 2 : Youth

Chuck paused on his way to the gaming table.

He had delivered Blair to Nate, they had both driven the half-hearted, half-formed thoughts of protest out of his head, and the couple were now happily playing the part to their parents. No one played it half as well as Blair. Nate certainly didn't. But he _looked_ the part, and he stumbled through it - and it didn't really concern him either way, much as he complained otherwise. Like everything Nate did, he was content to go along with it all.

Chuck had paused because a new face had caught his eye. A blonde girl that positively radiated innocence and naive simplicity, pretending to hide behind her fan, like she was oblivious to the admiring male glances directed her way.

One of those male glances included a certain Carter Baizen. And that decided it for Chuck. He had a new target.

He cut in front of Baizen easily, deliberately striding through his line of sight, blocking him from the girl's view. It gave him a sense of immense satisfaction, knowing how annoyed the other young man would be. He could practically feel the hate laden glare Carter was aiming at his back.

He didn't address the girl directly, which he knew would infuriate her, turning instead to her companion. He was poorly dressed and awkward looking.

Chuck smiled anyway, flashing his teeth.

"Excuse me, boy, could I get another drink?"

The man flushed immediately, stiffening. As Chuck had expected.

A choked laugh escaped the girl's lips before she covered it up, waving her fan in front of her face. But Chuck sensed her stiffen, too, as it sunk in. Chuck had not only ignored her, but chosen to address the man he seemingly assumed was a servant, instead of her.

"Sorry," the man was saying tightly now, "I'm not a serving boy_._" He was practically spluttering with righteous indignation, but Chuck hid his smirk.

"My mistake," he said idly.

Humiliation was delicious.

He spared the man a glance.

"Chuck Bass," he drawled.

"Daniel Humphrey," the other responded, rigidly.

Chuck flashed his teeth again.

"A pleasure."

He already knew his name; Blair had informed him earlier, nose wrinkled as she told him that they - he and his sister, the now furious blonde girl - came from Ukraine originally. Not even real Russians.

Humphrey managed to remember his manners, at a non too discrete elbow from his sister, because he cleared his throat, hastily adding, "And may I present my sister, Jennifer Humphrey."

Chuck allowed his eyes to brush over her then, lingering on her face (which made her blush, as he'd known it would) before flicking his eyes away. It was the type of penetrating gaze that he'd perfected; the one that made all women squirm. All girls flush. And then, cut short to madden them. Leave them desperate for more.

"A pleasure," he repeated, but more slowly this time, allowing his mouth to curl. Really, it was too easy. "Well, I'll take my leave of you. Time to find that serving boy, I think."

And he strutted away, dismissing them, leaving the girl trying very hard to conceal the fact that she was staring after him.

* * *

Nate was inebriated and fulfilled (again, too easy), where the alcohol had long stopped having an effect on Chuck - though it was habit to pretend he had enjoyed the ball. He had enjoyed playing with people, but he was far from fulfilled. Not that he had expected any different.

The party had tailed off, and only the more drunken guests loitered. And Chuck and Blair.

Chuck allowed his drunk best friend to lean on him as he escorted the pair into the carriage.

Nate reached for Blair in a drunken haze, but she rolled her eyes and sidestepped him, and Chuck pushed him into the seat.

"Come, Archibald. Home."

Blair was already upright on the opposite seat as Chuck slid in next to her, slamming the door shut.

The rocking of the carriage soon lulled Nate into a deep sleep, and his snores mixed with the horses hooves and rolling wheels.

Blair sighed, softly.

"A successful night?" Chuck enquired.

"Very," Blair responded. "Nate's father agreed to buy him that stallion he wanted, so all is well. No more talks of renouncing fortunes for a while. And I was presented with the Archibald family heirloom to try on, so mother was delighted."

Chuck smirked. "And you were...?"

"Equally delighted, of _course_. How goes it with the _Ukrainians_?"

It was Chuck's turn to sigh.

"As expected. She'll be in love with me by the end of the week."

Blair raised an eyebrow. "I honestly thought she would provide more of a challenge. She must have _some_ intelligence, to have wormed her way into that ball."

"Well," Chuck snorted, "It certainly wasn't down to her brother."

Blair grinned. "Certainly not. So, what is the plan for tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Chuck mused, "I will be hosting a party, to which Jennifer Humphrey will not be invited. She will be furious."

"And how long will you let her stew?"

"I'll give her two days. Then I'll allow her to accidentally run into me."

"And you'll be frightfully rude."

"And she'll be enraged."

"And then you'll hit her with sympathy?"

"Quite. I will explain the tragic reason for my rudeness, and let her think that only her innocence will redeem me."

"And then?"

He shrugged.

"And then she'll have reason to be humiliated."

Blair smiled, quietly, and fell silent again.

And then, because it was Blair, and because it was late and the carriage was lulling his thoughts too, Chuck spoke again.

"Does it ever strike you as odd," he murmured, leaning his head back against the plush seat, "That I spend so much time trying to win the love of women that I don't really want to seduce, and certainly have no intention of marrying?"

"Does it you?"

He chuckled. "I sometimes wonder. Why _do_ I bother?"

Blair leaned her head back too. "What else would you do?"

He turned his head to face her, glancing at her in amusement, because her answer was perfectly true. And where others might spend hours pondering the question, Blair accepted it. Not because she didn't want to think about it, but because Blair didn't brood if she saw no point to it.

"What else would _you_ do?" Chuck challenged anyway, because he loved contradiction.

She frowned.

"I hope you're not trying to put me in _your_ place, Bass."

He laughed. "No. I don't need to."

Even in the darkness he saw her eyes narrow.

"I don't spend my time chasing women I will never love."

"No, just one man."

She rolled her eyes.

He was only teasing, anyway.

They both knew why she did _that_, and it wasn't like she had a choice. The match had been planned before she was even born.

Their eyes fell on Nate.

"It's supposed to be easy," Blair said softly. And it was, in many ways. Nate was easy to control, easy to manipulate to a certain extent.

_But it was exhausting._

Chuck didn't need to say it.

"It's easy for him."

_Easy for Serena_.

She didn't need to say it.

Chuck nudged her, lightly, shoulder brushing hers.

"We don't need happiness," he reminded her.

"We're supposed to have it."

"Happiness is nothing but gratified pride."

"In that case," she smirked, "It's safe to say _you_ will never be happy. Your pride will _never_ be gratified."

"Quite," he agreed.

And then the strange mood was broken, and they slipped back into their roles like they always did. Just like that.

And the carriage jolted to a stop, and Nate's head raised, eyes opening blearily as he looked around in confusion.

The footman opened the carriage door and Chuck handed Blair out.

She turned before she disappeared into her home.

"Ensure that he gets back in one piece," she instructed, catching Chuck's eye, and he bowed.

"Your wish is my command."

"Good night, Chuck."

"Good night, Blair."

* * *

**Thank you very much for your review, abelard! **


	4. Chapter 3 : Youth

"Have you heard the news, Anne?" Eleanor Waldorf asked, spearing her fish elegantly. "Serena van der Woodsen is relaunching herself in society."

Chuck saw Blair freeze, though it was barely perceptible, and the two exchanged a look over the polished dinner table. Chuck had already found out and informed Blair that the rumours were true; Serena had returned from Paris.

"She was in France, was she not?" Anne murmured.

Fortunately, the conversation had passed over Nate's head; he was absorbed in a discussion about hunting with his father.

"Yes," Eleanor sighed. "Lucky girl. I imagine she must have quite some stories to tell." She spared her daughter a pointed glance. "We shall have to invite her over."

Blair smiled. "Of course, mother."

"You must have missed her," Anne said warmly. "I know the two of you were very close."

"Practically sisters," Eleanor nodded. "Serena taught Blair a great deal."

Blair's smile widened. "Oh, especially the importance of sharing," she said sweetly.

Chuck managed to repress a laugh; managed not to glance at Nate, to whom the comment had been aimed. And who both Chuck and Blair knew would be completely oblivious.

"...I disagree, father, the Volkski woods really are the best for deer..."

"Personally," Chuck drawled, "I think Paris is rather overrated." He accompanied it with a disarming smile that failed to meet his eyes. "I've been there many a time, and the reality doesn't live up to the fantasy. Especially where the women are concerned."

Anne choked, slightly, on her fish, but covered it up.

"I'm sure Serena had a marvelous time," Chuck added.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him, unsettled. "I'm sure she did," the woman answered frostily.

Blair hid her smirk.

* * *

Chuck had walked in on them, Nate and Serena. Locked in a passionate embrace. He had guessed as much; guessed from the looks Nate had given her, the shifty silences, the lowered (and, despite their best efforts, not remotely subtle) conversations in corners of rooms. He had been right, and it should have given him some satisfaction.

Instead, his heart had filled with venomous spite at the sight of them. Because they were so unsubtle? So cliched? Because they had let passion overrun their reason, like they always did? Because they had conducted their love affair in the stupidest way, and people that stupid, while deserving each other, did not deserve to delude themselves into thinking sheer lust was love. Nate and his endless pining, his weakness, his romance - it had set Chuck's teeth on edge.

There was a plan, and all Nate had to do was follow it. An imbecile could do that. Nate could have the easy life, and be happy, and he'd complicated it all and thrown it all away, risked all that he'd never even had to work to get. And a slow, deep resentment had started to burn in Chuck. It wasn't fair.

It was more than that, though. Serena had got it all. Stolen it all. Everything that Blair had worked for. Everything Serena didn't deserve.

It seemed that was the way of the world, and Chuck shouldn't have been surprised, really. So he had conducted his revenge, and he hadn't felt an ounce of remorse in doing it.

He had found evidence - stupid, rambling _love letters_ written to each other (filled with over-sentimental, over-used sayings that he doubted either of them fully comprehended) - he had found them hidden under Nate's pillow. Of all places. He had found them, sent them anonymously to Serena as blackmail. Let her know the secret was out. And she had fled the country the next day.

He had been annoyed, initially, because he'd so wanted to watch her squirm. But he supposed it was an easier outcome.

He had told Blair, because knowledge was power, and she was the only person he might consider lending it to. He hadn't expected it to be so hard, though. He should have liked watching that kind of reaction. But not with Blair, not when it hit so close to home. Her hurt, her humiliation, was like his own.

He could still remember it, the way she had frozen. Seen it, briefly, the flicker of crippling pain in her eyes. She had told him, icily, to go away, and he had. For anyone else, he might have wanted to stay, enjoy watching them break down. But he hadn't wanted to see Blair cry. Any more than he'd want her to see _him_ cry.

He'd called on her the next day, though, and told her of his revenge. She'd needed it. Outwardly, she'd brushed it off - _It's hardly a surprise _- and gone back to Nate like nothing had happened, because what choice did she have?

But the plan had failed. Serena was back.

* * *

"Ravishing as always," Chuck smirked, kissing Blair's hand.

She smirked back. Her dress was imported from Germany, fashioned from the finest blue silk. One of her mother's 'gifts', the corset drawn as tight as was humanly possible, in keeping with the fashion.

"And where is dear Nathaniel?"

He hardly needed to ask; Nate was standing over with his father and a handful of other gentlemen, talking and laughing loudly.

"Discussing the merits of English setters over French bassets," she answered drily. "Apparently there is a world of difference between the two hounds."

"Obviously."

They paused to see Carter Baizen stride in, lip curling as he noted Chuck, before he headed for the other side of the room.

That was when another man caught their attention, his ill-fitting waistcoat immediately apparent. As he saw Chuck, a scowl crossed his face. They could both see his fists gathering at his sides, but he managed to restrain himself.

"Good boy, Humphrey," Chuck murmured.

Humphrey deliberately turned away, busying himself away from the pair.

"You should be careful, Bass," Blair murmured back. "Your enemies are gathering."

Chuck just laughed, softly. "I hardly think Humphrey poses a threat."

She had to agree, but she tilted her head. "And Carter?"

He snorted. "He only dislikes me because I've seen through him. And I do so love to rile him up."

Sure enough, he sent Carter a smirk, which made the other man's shoulders clench, though he was forced to smile, tightly, back.

But something else had caught Chuck's attention.

"Speaking of enemies..."

It was Blair's turn to stiffen. Serena had just walked in.

* * *

They had both watched Nate's face light up as he realised who had just walked into the room, both watched him make a beeline for the girl, and both seen the look of sheer panic on Serena's face as she noticed.

She looked like a caged animal. A tall, beautiful, golden caged animal, Blair reflected. Especially if Nate's drooling was anything to go by.

So, smiling, Blair made her way over, flanked by Chuck, and the two of them managed to trap her further.

"Serena!" Blair cried gaily. "How wonderful to see you."

She moved over and embraced her, and Serena had no choice but to respond.

"Blair," she said weakly. "I...wonderful to see you too. How are you?"

Blair's eyes gleamed. "Never better. You must join me for an aperitif so I can hear all about your fascinating time in France."

"I..."

But Serena had no defense, and she was forced to follow. Chuck laughed, softly. The sound reached Nate, lost in gazing after Serena though he was.

"What's so funny?" he asked dazedly.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Nothing, Nathaniel. Just _delighted_ Serena has finally returned. Things were getting a little _dull_ around here."

* * *

Serena had managed to escape Blair, Nate, and Chuck - which left her at the outskirts of the ball. Blair was seemingly wrapped in discussion with her betrothed and his best friend, but two pairs of dark eyes scrutinized the blonde girl's every move.

Which was how they saw her forced to engage in conversation with Daniel Humphrey, who was also standing awkwardly at the edge (though not through his own choice).

Two pairs of dark eyes met each other, briefly, eyebrows raised.

"Nathaniel. How about a game of whist?" Carter Bazien appeared, his invitation quite deliberately excluding Chuck, which made the other young man snort, faintly.

"Of course," Nate said eagerly, getting ready to follow Carter to the gaming table.

Chuck let him go.

He had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment, more important than petty jealousy and exasperation at Nate's willingness to please.

He could manipulate Carter back any day, after all.

"I can't believe she came to this event," Blair muttered. "She surely must have known we would be here."

"Maybe not," Chuck mused. "It is Serena, after all."

Blair pursed her lips, mouth thinning. "She needs to be removed. I was considering-"

"Complete social destruction?" Chuck finished with a smirk, which she returned.

"How well you know me."

The continued to watch Serena talking to the Ukrainian outcast, watched him fumble over his words while kindly Serena gave the semblance of listening.

And they exchanged another look, knowing that the same idea had crossed both their minds in that moment.

"Allow me," Chuck grinned, and, with a wink at her, headed straight over to Serena and Humphrey.

Blair watched Humphrey straighten as soon as Chuck appeared, watched the Ukrainian's scowl reappear - really, he was appalling at controlling his facial expressions.

"Serena," Chuck smiled, ignoring Humphrey. "How _are_ you?" His eyes roamed over her deliberately, and she shifted in almost haughty confusion - he had never bothered charming her before. She was not one of his conquests.

"Chuck," she mumbled. She nodded at the other gentleman. "May I present Daniel-"

"We've met," Humphrey interjected roughly, and Chuck rolled his eyes at his lack of manners.

Still, he adopted a puzzled air.

"We have? I don't recall."

Humphrey's eyebrows bunched in rage. "At the last ball," he spluttered. His voice got even tighter. "You met my _sister_ too."

Chuck maintained his blank expression, and Humphrey got even more wound up.

"You thought I was a serving boy!"

There was an awkward pause, and Serena shifted on her feet, trying hard not to giggle despite herself.

Chuck raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I recall now." Flashed a smile. "My apologies again, Hamphrey."

"Humphrey."

"Of course. So...how is your...sister, was it? Julie?"

"Jenny!" Dan's fists had clenched again.

"So sorry," Chuck smiled, anything but. He pretended to look around the room. "Where is she tonight? I'm surprised she would want to miss a ball like this one, especially since _you_ went to the effort to attend..."

"She's at home," Humphrey snapped.

Chuck gave him a look of pure innocence. "I hope she is well? No illness? Or perhaps she is...lovesick?"

It was the only word he needed to say. Daniel Humphrey lost it.

Chuck let the boy punch him, let himself stagger backwards, and let the guards then escort the loutish Ukrainian out to the gutter where he belonged.

Serena was looking at him, appalled, even though she still wasn't entirely sure what had just happened.

Chuck shrugged. "Some people simply have no self-control."

Serena flinched, as Chuck had known she would.

"If you'll excuse me," she muttered.

Chuck watched her go, satisfied for now.

* * *

Blair had waited till Chuck reached Serena and Humphrey before seeking out Katia and Isabelle. They were well known to be the biggest gossips in their circle; perfect for the spreading of rumours.

She allowed herself to be kissed by the two young women, smiling all the while.

"So, how delighted are we that Serena is relaunching herself in our society?"

Katia and Isabelle exchanged glances.

"Well...thrilled, of course."

Katia nodded emphatically. "Of course."

"But one has to wonder why she picked now to return..."

Blair smirked inwardly. She knew the question would be at the forefront of all their minds.

She looked over in Serena's direction, and Katia and Isabelle followed.

Katia made a face of disgust. "_Who_ is that she's talking to?"

"Daniel Humprehy," Blair responded serenely. "From Ukraine."

Katia and Isabelle exchanged another glance.

"Why is she talking to _him_?"

"I don't know," Blair mused. "It is odd that she would seek him out, when in a ballroom filled with her old friends. Don't you think?"

Katia and Isabelle were inspecting Serena closely now.

They saw her place her hand on Humphrey's arm, introducing him, saw Humphrey tense as he faced Chuck Bass.

Serena laughed, and Humphrey looked even more ill at ease.

"If I didn't know any better," Isabelle breathed, "I would say that Ukrainian looked jealous of Chuck Bass."

"He looks furious," Katia agreed hungrily.

Blair shrugged. "Perhaps he feels threatened. Serena and Chuck are old family friends, after all."

This was working out as perfectly as she'd expected, and she had to fight hard not to let her smirk escape.

"But why would someone like _him_ consider himself a rival to Chuck Bass? Surely he must know he has no hope of-"

"Unless Serena..."

Both girls' eyes widened.

"Well," Blair said softly. "Perhaps we know the real reason she came back now."

"A love affair with a classless Ukrainian?" Isabelle gasped. "But-"

Then they all saw, as Humphrey punched Chuck hard, as Serena cried out in alarm.

They all saw Humphrey escorted out, and they all saw how Serena, instead of staying to check on the poor friend who had just been punched, ran away.

"Well," Katia breathed. "Scandalous."

* * *

**Thank you so much for all your reviews - I really appreciate them!**


	5. Chapter 4 : Youth

The rumours had spread like wildfire, discretely fanned by Chuck and Blair.

The best part of all of it was that Serena remained completely clueless, and she was so worried about getting caught in conversation with with Nate, Blair, or Chuck, that she played right into their hands. She even went as far as to invite Humphrey to the next ball, and was spotted leaving with him (in secret relief that only Chuck and Blair understood) when he was refused entry.

It had earned her dirty looks and numerous insults behind her back, but it wasn't enough. She still looked far too happy whenever they saw her. Still blissfully ignorant. And Nate continued to pine, and his longing was getting less and less subtle by the day.

"When is this going to end?" Blair seethed. It was the closest to losing her temper Chuck had ever seen her get, and he cocked his eyebrow.

"I encourage patience and restraint," he murmured.

She sighed. "The time for patience and restraint has passed, Bass. Even I can see that."

They were walking through the winter gardens, arm in arm.

Blair privately found the green comforting, a contrast to the greys of Petersburg. She loathed the countryside, but the gardens allowed her to enjoy nature in a sophisticated setting, with the reassuring grandeur of the palace as a backdrop. Of course, she wasn't allowed to stroll them unchaperoned.

"So what do you propose?" Chuck enquired. He actually agreed with her; it really wasn't enough. He longed to watch Serena suffer just as much as Blair did.

"An announcement. Public humiliation."

"Serena present?"

"Of course."

"And who will deliver it?"

"Me," Blair smiled with satisfaction.

* * *

Blair had dutifully followed her mother's wishes, and invited Serena over for a dinner party. She had also invited all of their circle. Nate and Chuck included.

When Serena came in, Blair directed her to her seat under her mother's (for once) approving eye, all smiles and light laughs.

"I have a surprise for you," she informed her best friend contentedly.

Serena raised her eyebrows, finally letting herself relax a little. She was starting to think that perhaps her and Blair's friendship could be salvaged. Perhaps her crime really could stay buried.

"Oh?" she giggled. "What is it?"

"A mystery guest."

Eleanor frowned, slightly - she hadn't sanctioned a _mystery guest_ - but Serena's delighted laugh appeased her.

Blair had deliberately given Humphrey the time a half hour after the other guests were arriving. It maximized his awkward entrance - as if his clothes didn't do that enough for him.

"The mystery guest has arrived!" Blair trilled, and Serena looked around in slight surprise.

The entrees had already been served, and everyone was seated.

But she smiled as she saw the uneasy figure. "Dan?"

And the rest of the table had fallen silent, watching intently, suspicions confirmed.

Oblivious Serena was just pleased to see her friend (charity case). She really had felt sorry for the awkward young man over the past few days.

"Daniel, your seat is next to Serena," Blair smiled. "It's a pleasure to have you join us."

Only Chuck noticed that her eyes didn't match her mouth, and he grinned into his wine glass.

Blair waited till they were onto dessert. Her favourite part. Then she raised her own glass.

"I would like to propose a toast," she called out. Silence fell, Serena beaming over at her - even Nate looked up from his cake, interested. Blair smiled back.

"I just wanted to express how much I admire my best friend, Serena van der Woodsen."

Serena looked a little puzzled, but pleased at the same time.

Blair had sat Chuck and Humphrey strategically, on Chuck's suggestion. The two newly-formed enemies were opposite each other across the table. Dan had tried hard throughout the meal to ignore Chuck's burning smirk, his superior smile, and focus on Serena.

"And my admiration has increased tenfold, since learning of the trials that she faced last year. Forced to flee our motherland because of her _heart_."

There was a pause. Serena had suddenly gone very still, faltering, uncertain.

"It must have been so hard for her. You see, Serena was faced with the pressures of a society that wouldn't accept a union between her and the man she loved. Loves, in fact."

Serena's eyes had widened in horror.

She was struggling to catch Nate's attention, panicked, but Nate just looked confused as the words sunk in.

"But, really," Blair gazed around the table, smiling sweetly, hands clasped, "Who are we to stand in the way of true love?"

"Blair-" Serena whispered, choked, and even Nate had started to catch on, smile fading.

Blair gave her the sweetest smile back.

"Which is why tonight, I invited Daniel Humphrey to dine with us. Poor Serena has had to keep her feelings hidden the entire time she has been back among us. And I won't allow it to continue."

She beamed at Humphrey.

"So I wished to tell you, as your best friend. I approve of this union, regardless of what anyone else says." She raised her glass again. "Come, Daniel, Serena. Join me in toasting your true love!"

The shock reverberated through the room, and the whispers started. It was true; all of it, all true! Serena was having an affair with a penniless Ukrainian!

Serena was stunned, silent, completely floored. She didn't have a clue how to react.

Dan opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment, Chuck leaned forwards.

"Nothing beats a girl in her first flushes of sweet love, does it, Humpty-dumpty?" he murmured so only Humphrey could hear.

Humphrey's face accordingly blackened in rage.

"You-"

"So, Daniel," Blair interrupted smoothly, "Tell us. What date have you set for your engagement?"

Dan leapt to his feet, furious, sending dishes flying.

"There will be no engagement!" he spat. "I don't want anything to do with any of you!"

Faces gaped in shock, horrified gasps resounded.

Nate had finally grasped what was going on. This upstart had come in, stolen Serena's heart, and was now publicly rejecting her. Nate would not stand for this. He got to his own feet.

"I think it time you leave," he snapped, and, grabbing Humphrey's jacket, seized him and marched him out, ignoring his wild protests.

Blair's face was a picture of tragic horror. "Oh, Serena. I'm so sorry. I let this man _ruin_ you."

They all stared at Serena, who was still speechless. The fallen woman.

Abruptly, she got up, and fled.

No one saw the grin that Chuck and Blair exchanged.


	6. Chapter 5 : Transition

**"Here we are, two intelligent people. We each know all the other's innermost thoughts. A single word tells us a whole story, and we see through the triple outer husk to the kernel of our emotions. We find sad things funny, and funny things sad, though in fact we're pretty indifferent to everything but ourselves." **Pechorin, 'A Hero of Our Time'.

* * *

The other guests had left, and the dining room had been cleaned up, Nate sent home to calm down.

Blair made no outward sign that she cared that her betrothed had fought so hard to defend _Serena's_ honour, had been so visibly upset at the idea of _her_ hurting. Serena was ruined. What else had she been striving for?

Chuck wandered into empty drawing room, dropping onto the chaise long next to her.

"Yet another successful party that ends itself in your delightful company," he purred.

"Are you here to congratulate me?"

He glanced at her, taking in the emptiness behind her crooked smile. He looked, and said, honestly, "You were amazing out there."

Her mouth curled again, though she'd detected that he was being genuine for once.

"Would you believe me," she asked wryly, "If I said that making others unhappy makes me no less unhappy myself?"

He chuckled. "That would be my line."

She grinned.

"You know how to hurt people," he shrugged. "I admire you for it. And what you just performed was nothing short of genius."

"Nothing short of perfection," she corrected.

"Perfection," he agreed with a grin. He handed her a glass of champagne. "A drink?"

She rolled her eyes, but accepted. Blair rarely drank anything, and it amused him, now, as she swallowed the alcohol without thinking.

He clinked his glass with hers. "To success."

"Success," she agreed. Her mouth twitched. "_Far_ better than happiness."

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a while.

When Blair next spoke, her voice was ever so slightly slurred - imperceptible to anyone else, perhaps, but Chuck noticed it.

"Do you know something, Chuck Bass? I sometimes think it would be a relief if Nate just eloped with Serena. I'd feel _relief._"

He looked at her in mild surprise. Not because of what she'd said, but because she'd said it at all. Still, he concealed it with an idle smile.

"And then who would you marry?" he teased.

Her head rested against the back of the seat. "Certainly not you. Your heart will never be slave to any woman you love."

He raised an eyebrow. "And do I love you?" He knew he was goading her, and couldn't resist, leaning in a little closer.

She didn't answer, just smiled.

"You are incapable of loving anyone but yourself," she answered indolently.

"Like you," he reminded her, smirking. "We're the same, you and I."

She leaned into him, then, head brushing his shoulder. He chuckled and glanced down at her. He could breathe in the familiar scent of her hair just under his chin.

"I hardly think it ladylike to get oneself into such a state of inebriation," he teased.

She tilted her head up so that her face was level with his.

"Really?" she murmured.

He was vaguely aware that neither of them were sure what she was asking any more.

She was suddenly too close, and at the same time, not close enough. Her scent overwhelmed him, and her eyes were too deep, her lips too near - just seconds from his - her skin too warm. Her form against his was too soft.

Chuck Bass had never been overwhelmed in his life.

Chuck Bass always took what he wanted, the more challenging to obtain the better, and it would be easy, so very easy, to take this girl. To kiss her.

Except it was Blair. And he hadn't even schemed for this; hadn't plotted or manipulated, and so in his mind, it made no sense. And it was Blair. Blair who he didn't hurt, Blair who he didn't use.

So he pulled back, removed himself from the warmth and his suddenly pounding heart and churning blood - lust, he could control lust - and tore open the gap between them again, ignoring the immense dissatisfaction that burned through him at the loss. He didn't break eye contact, though; couldn't quite do that.

"I think," he said roughly, "That I had better escort you to your room."

She nodded wordlessly, and let him lead her upstairs, where he left her, not crossing the threshold this time, and returned to his own home. Idiot. He was an idiot. For wanting to take her, for not taking her - he wasn't sure which.

* * *

He was lying in his own bed, trying to empty his thoughts, trying to ignore the strange sensation in his gut - what _had_ he eaten? - when an urgent knocking roused him.

He got up and moved to the door, sighing.

"Yes?"

The servant who greeted him was accompanied by a messenger, whose eyes were wild and face flushed from the cold.

"Master Bass," he managed, traces of a pant still in his voice. "I bring news of your father."

Chuck stopped, staring at him.

"My father?" he repeated, voice suddenly sharp and not much like his own.

The messenger swallowed.

"His party was attacked on the road from Moscow. I'm sorry, sir. There were no survivors."

* * *

**Sorry; I know this chapter's relatively short. Thank you for your reviews; I really appreciate you taking the time to write them and they really help! So please don't stop :) **


	7. Chapter 6 : Transition

When they told him, he laughed.

Because it simply could not be true. Bart Bass was invincible.

He could not be gone; could not have been destroyed by simple bandits. His father was too clever for that.

If Bart was not invincible, then intelligence made no sense, and then nothing made sense. This was not the plan.

So Chuck laughed, because the idea was almost amusing in its absurdity. He ignored the unsettled looks that his servants exchanged. His laugh did not sound like him; it was foreign to his ears.

His father could not be dead. It was as simple as that.

* * *

He started laughing in the funeral, as the priest talked about God and what He intended. No, Bart Bass did not fall prey to religion. No authority in the heavens controlled him. It was not his time. It did not follow the plan.

That could not be his father's body, broken beyond repair at the front. Bart was supposed to be invincible, infallible, eternal.

And once Chuck started laughing, he really couldn't stop.

Couldn't stop when Nate stared at him in horror, couldn't stop when everyone turned to look at him; kept laughing till they were forced to turn their eyes away. And he still didn't recognise the harsh sound erupting from him.

He hadn't cried; not once. Not one tear.

Just the empty laughter.

And when it got too much, and his gut ached, he calmly removed himself from the throng of mourners and walked out of the church. It was only when he was sitting, quite calmly, on the stone steps outside, that he realised Nate, Blair, and even Serena had followed him. He deliberately didn't let his gaze flicker to Blair - not even for a second - as he hadn't the entire day. He didn't want her here. Didn't want her to see him now, not like this.

"Chuck," Nate attempted, as soon as he got close. "You have to go back."

Chuck just laughed again.

Nate shifted awkwardly on his feet, trying to hide his flinch at the inhuman sound.

Serena moved forwards, and laid a hand on his arm.

"Chuck," she began softly, and he ripped his arm away, shoving her off.

"Don't touch me, whore," he snarled. Her stupid face screwed up in shock and hurt. "I don't need advice from cretins who can't keep their filthy hands off each other," he hissed. "Hypocrites are no help to me, Nathaniel."

They both fell silent, staggered. And he saw the guilt all over their faces, his problems rapidly replaced with their own, as he'd wanted.

Too late, Nate and Serena's eyes slid to Blair.

"Blair-" Serena attempted, weakly.

Blair ignored her. "Chuck, you need to go back for the dividing of your father's property. You need to find out your inheritance."

He stopped laughing, then, because Blair was nothing to laugh about.

"I don't want any of it," he replied shortly. "As long as the money is at my disposal."

"But..." Nate struggled. "What about the property-"

"I'm leaving."

"Leaving-?"

Chuck's face contorted into a sneer. "I'm not staying in dear Petersburg a day longer." He nodded, brusquely, at the other young man. "So have a good life, Nathaniel. I enjoyed being you friend."

And he left. And, this time, Nate and Serena didn't follow him.

* * *

"Chuck. Stop."

He stopped, reacting to the sound of her voice, not to what she'd told him to do. She caught up with him, pulling at his arm so that he was forced round to her. He stared blankly down at her, her hair tousled from where she'd run, brown eyes wide.

"Yes?"

She ignored his curt tone. "Don't do this."

He snorted. "Do what?"

"You need to go home," she said steadily.

"I don't want to."

And he turned again, telling her the conversation was over.

She grabbed his jacket again, refusing to let him go. "I'm not letting you run away."

He laughed, hollow.

"And how do _you_ plan on stopping me?" he sneered.

Her eyes narrowed, and her grip tightened. He should have been able to shake her off with ease; she was half his size, after all.

Instead, he slumped. "I appreciate your concern," he ground out at last, stiffening to pull away again.

"No," she snapped, still not letting go. "No, you don't. You never appreciate _anything_. But it makes no difference to me."

"Why?" he hissed suddenly. "What are you doing, Blair? Trying to _save_ me?" He turned now, gripping her back, eyes burning into hers. "Is that what you spend your days fantasizing over? _Saving_ the tortured Chuck Bass?"

She didn't flinch, and he tightened his fingers round her arm, face millimeters from hers.

"You think I don't _know_?" he snarled. "Oh, I know that underneath it all, Blair Waldorf is as pathetic and stupid as the next girl. Perhaps you've been _yearning_ over me all this time, _praying_ that you'll be the one to break through. That underneath it all, I'm actually a _hero_." He no longer knew who he was lashing out at, her or him. But he wanted it to be her. He looked down coldly, holding her at arm's length. His voice was flat now, empty. "I think it's time to let go of your fantasies, don't you?"

But her face didn't crumple like it was supposed to; he didn't see the pain that he'd so yearned for in her eyes, so that maybe his wouldn't be quite so bad. And she still didn't let go of him.

"You think I'm that noble?" she hissed back. "That I'm doing this to save _you_?"

He was silent, watching her.

She laughed derisively. "And you pride yourself on knowing people. You've known me my whole life, Chuck, and clearly you're as ignorant as the next person." It was her turn to lean in closer, small fingers still holding on. "Don't you understand? If you destroy yourself, you destroy me." She glared up at him, eyes blazing. "What am I supposed to do _without_ you?"

He tried to break her gaze, then, tried to look away.

"Do you love me?" he mocked bitterly, quietly. Mockery made everything easier.

"I love myself. And that's the same thing."

He felt a harsh lump rising in his throat, and he was finding it impossible to breathe. Because she was honest. No pretense, no games.

And Chuck Bass did not survive on honesty. This wasn't the role he was used to playing, wasn't the role he had practiced. Wasn't the dissatisfaction he was used to. This was just pain, and nothing made sense any more. And Chuck hated, hated not understanding.

So he pulled his hands away, slid his blank mask back into place (even though he was standing opposite the one person who could see through it).

"Well," he growled, "That's too bad."

And this time, when he moved away, she let him go. This time he'd seen the flash of pain that he'd wanted, and the satisfaction was empty and burning, and no better than the pain.

* * *

**I promise the next chapter will be longer! Thank you so much for your reviews :)**


	8. Chapter 7 : Transition

Blair dried her eyes, because she did not waste tears. By the time she had reached the Bass home, where the reception was being held, all traces of her weakness had been wiped away, her own mask slid back into place. She knew, automatically, that she would be scolded by her mother if she didn't return to pay her respects. She was no doubt in enough trouble for leaving in the first place.

To her chagrin, Serena had also returned. Nate was nowhere in sight; Blair supposed she should be thankful for small mercies. Serena approached her in the hallway, away from prying eyes, and tried to take her arm, beseeching.

"Blair-"

"I knew, Serena," she said shortly. She really didn't have the energy to deal with this at the moment. Not any more.

Serena's face was a picture of shock. It was almost comical, the way her mouth hung open.

"You...knew? How?"

Blair just rolled her eyes. "Subtlety never was your strong point," she bit. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Wait." Serena tried to hold on to her again. "Blair...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes were shining with _tears_. There, Serena was someone who wasted them.

"Wonderful," Blair answered.

Serena's face fell. "What can I do?" she pleaded.

Blair smiled humourlessly. "You can stay away from me."

"Blair, you're my closest friend. You're my sister."

Blair glanced at her. "I'm the person who spread the rumours about you and Humphrey," she informed her calmly. "I wanted to take my revenge, and I did. I knew the entire time that there was nothing going on. I just loved to watch you suffer."

The look of shock was back; Serena stumbled a little, mumbling, "What?"

"We are not friends," Blair enunciated, very clearly, so there could be no doubt. "And we never will be again."

And with that, she returned to the crowded room, smile slipped back into place like she could almost pretend there was something, anything, behind it other than hurt.

* * *

When Blair got home she was drained.

So she wasn't prepared for the maid who took to one side once she was through the door, out of her mother's earshot, to murmur, "Master Bass is in your room."

She stopped. For a split second, she froze, and then, before she could stop herself, before she could even consider it, she was on her way up the stairs.

"Goodnight, Blair," her mother called pointedly, and her response was automatic and immediately forgotten.

Numb, she moved along her corridor, and then she was in front of her door, pushing it open. She was stiff and almost shaking with anger; the second she saw him sitting on her bed, the words sprang out, accusatory.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Like her voice hadn't just caught, didn't tremble. Anger was the best defense.

But then Chuck turned, and looked at her.

And she stopped.

Stopped because the look on his face was one she'd never seen before; the blind, raw need and loss, no mask, no shield for his emotion. And that was _her_ Chuck looking up at her in that much pain. Pain that he couldn't even begin to express.

And then she was at his side, wrapping her arms around him, squeezing him, holding him to her, holding him up. She was barely aware of what she was doing; all she knew was that she couldn't let go, or he would fall to pieces. She hugged him fiercely, hardly noticing her uncomfortable position on the bed, trying with all her might to keep her small arms wrapped around his frame.

Like if she held him, she could fix him and they would both be all right.

She felt him shudder in her arms, felt the searing heat of his tear as it fell in her lap. Felt him finally relax, only marginally, leaning into her, as his own hand curled on her arm, clinging on too.

* * *

She lay awake in the dark of her room, waiting for his jagged breathing to even out, her face pressed against his tense back, watching the muscles clench under his shirt. Then finally relax, as sleep took him. And only then did she allow her own eyes to close.

* * *

When he awoke, the first thing he smelt was her. He was in her bed. Her arms were still holding on to him, even in her sleep.

He stared down at her in the darkness, at the tranquility of her familiar face, shadows slanted across her cheeks, long lashes closed. And his heart clenched again.

Why had he come here? Because he was as selfish as she was, and he needed her as much as she did him. He had no soul, no conscience. This girl did not belong to him, and he didn't know how to love.

Nothing made sense any more.

So couldn't he go against it all, just this once, and perform one selfless act? Just one. And then he could go back to a life of selfishness, the only life he knew how to lead.

He disentangled himself, slowly, from her arms. She whimpered under her breath, moving closer to him, reaching for him. As possessive as he was, even in sleep. So he caught her hands, and kissed her. Her lips were warm and soft, and sweeter than he could have imagined. He breathed her in, his own lips lingering, taking her in for the final time. She tasted like she smelled; delicious and achingly beautiful and _Blair_.

And it seemed to soothe her. Because this time, when he pulled away, she didn't stir. He tugged the coverlet over her and eased himself out of the bed.

There he paused.

She was going to wake up alone.

He knew, with absolute certainty, that she would hate him. Hate him for leaving her, even if it was his first and only selfless act. They didn't do selflessness, after all.

Chuck Bass always knew what to say. He always had the words ready for any situation. And now, he was lost. He had a pen and paper. He just didn't have the words.

_Sorry_, he wrote. Woefully inadequate. But then they had never been about written, formed, spoken words. It was the subtext.

_For everything._

He paused again. Glanced over at her sleeping form, his heart clenching unbearably.

_Don't look for me._

He was informing her in that line. He didn't plan on coming back.

And then he crept out of her room, and stole away into the night like the coward he was.

* * *

Blair sat erect at the dining table, silver spoon in her bowl of soup. She hadn't eaten any for the past several minutes, and no one had noticed. The conversation buzzed around her, the tinkling laughs echoed in her ears. She stared at a spot just ahead of her on the table; at the intricate pattern of the tablecloth.

"...Gone away to the Caucasus, apparently..."

"...Such a tragedy..."

"...Always was a strange boy..."

Did they have nothing better to talk about? Blair wondered distantly.

Respite came in the form of the dining room door being thrown open, though Blair barely registered it at first. And then Nate was standing there, eyes wide, shirt ruffled, ignoring the attempts of the mildly alarmed servants to stop him.

"Is it true?"

It took a moment for her to realise that he was addressing her. That all the women at the table had fallen silent now, staring at her.

"Nathaniel," Anne protested weakly. "What are you-"

"Is it true?" Nate repeated through ground teeth, and that was when Blair realised he was furious. Furious at her.

"Is what true?" she asked, voice low and calm.

"That you ruined Serena's reputation? Deliberately?"

Blair just stared up at him.

"Did you spread rumours about her and that Humphrey boy?"

She paused, and it occurred to her that she really should start coming up with her defense.

"Blair?" Her mother was staring at her now, lips pinched, eyes narrowed.

Blair still couldn't talk, still couldn't quite find her voice, though she knew that right about now there should have been practiced lies slipping through her lips.

"How could you?" Eleanor asked icily. "To you own best friend?"

Blair just looked at Nate.

He was staring at her like he didn't know who she was any more. But then, he probably never had.

"I can't believe you'd be that manipulative," he whispered.

Did they have any idea how ridiculous they all sounded? She turned, on instinct, to catch Chuck's eye, because he'd be thinking the same thing - then remembered. There was no one's eye to catch.

Anne stood up, nervously. "Nate," she muttered, "I think it's time we went home."

And she pulled her son out of the room, leaving all gazes on Blair.

* * *

Blair was woken by Eleanor herself, storming into her room, dragging her out of the bed.

"Look," she shrieked. "Just look at what you've done, you awful girl!"

Blair stumbled upright, pulling herself away.

"What?" she snapped back.

"You've ruined us," Eleanor hissed. Hysteria was rising in her voice. "Ruined us all!"

"What are you talking about, mother?"

It took her a moment to realise Eleanor was brandishing a note in her face. A note from Anne Archibald.

"Serena and Nathaniel have _eloped_," her mother informed her furiously. She gave her a look of disgust. "I hope you're happy with yourself. You've destroyed everything we ever worked for. Now you have no one."

* * *

**Thanks so much for continuing to review! **


	9. Chapter 8 : Travel

**"My imagination knows no peace, my heart no satisfaction. I grow used to sorrow as easily as I do pleasure, and my life gets emptier every day. The only thing left for me is to travel. I am like a mariner whose soul has become so used to storm and strife that, if cast ashore, he would fade away, no matter how alluring the shady groves and how bright the gentle sun. All day long he walks up and down the beach, listening to the monotonous roar of the breakers and looking into the hazy distance to catch the flash of the long-awaited sail." **Pechorin, 'Hero Of Our Time'.

* * *

Georgia  
Koishuar Valley

Two travelers sat across a rough table in the smoky hut of an inn. They had traveled across the valley in the same coach, but neither knew the other very well.

"Were you long in the Chechen region?" the younger of the two, Mikhail, enquired.

The older man, a captain by the name of Maxim Maximich, merely shrugged. "Quite a while."

"You must have had many adventures?" the younger man pressed curiously.

Maxim chuckled. "Many indeed. You meet some peculiar people out here. And not just the natives, either."

"Oh?"

Maxim poured himself a drink, setting the samovar down. "I was once stationed at a fort beyond the Terek - must have been three years ago now. A supply convoy came up, and with it an officer, a young man of about nineteen, who announced that he was to join me at the fort. He was so slim and white, and so fashionably dressed that I could tell he was a newcomer to the Caucasus. 'You must've been transferred here from Russia?' I asked him. 'Yes, sir,' he replied."

"What was his name?" Mikhail asked.

"Charl's Bartolomejevich Bassov," [1] Maxim replied. Then he smiled, puffing his chest out slightly. "Though his friends knew him as Chuck." It was obvious the old captain considered himself in that number. "He was a fine man, if a bit odd. He would spend days on end hunting in rain or cold - everyone else would be chilled and exhausted, but not he. But sometimes a mere draft in his room would be enough for him to declare he had caught a cold - a banging shutter might make him jump and turn pale. Yet I once saw him go at a wild boar single-handed. He'd get something in his head, and not be content till he had it. He must've been spoilt as a child.

"Sometimes you couldn't get a word out of him for hours, yet when he did start telling stories, you'd split your sides laughing..." He paused, lost in recollection, then shook his head. "A very odd young man, he was. And rich too, judging by the expensive trinkets he had. "

"Was he with you long?"

"Long?" Maxim paused, waving his hand. "Not too long. A few months. But they were months I won't forget. He caused me plenty of trouble, God forgive him! But he was eventually transferred to Georgia under another regiment. I don't know where." He nodded, drinking his tea. "A most odd young man."

* * *

Vladikavkaz

An elegant carriage pulled into the inn courtyard, followed by a well-dressed footman. Maxim, noting it from the window, remarked on its beauty.

His young companion nodded in agreement. "Probably some official from Tiflis."

They wandered into the hall, in time to see the valet dragging suitcases in.

"You there," Maxim called out. "Whose carriage is that?"

The valet frowned. "My master's."

"And who is your master?"

"Chuck Bass."

"What?" Maxim's eyes widened. "Chuck? Is he staying here?"

"I believe so," the valet replied.

Maxim slapped the man's shoulder. "Your master and I used to be good friends! Where can I find him?"

The valet wrinkled his nose. "He is dining out of town tonight."

Maxim was not deterred. "Very well. When you see him, then, tell him Maxim Maximich is here. He'll know who I am!"

The valet promised to do so, and went on his way.

Maxim beamed. "He'll come at once, I'm sure."

* * *

Chuck made no effort to find his 'old friend' for two days, though Maxim waited eagerly.

Eventually, they ran into him in the courtyard, as he was preparing to leave. Mikhail, for his part, took him in with curiosity. Maxim's description had done everything to pique his interest in the aristocrat.

Chuck Bass was a young man of medium height, with an erect, lithe figure and broad shoulders. His clothes were immaculate and of the highest fashion; a velvet waistcoat and a spotless white shirt. He was clean shaven and pale-skinned, with thick dark hair, a strong jaw and high, curving cheekbones. His walk was careless, almost sinuous.

It was his eyes that Mikhail noticed most, though.

Hazel at first glance, though they gleamed with darker flecks from under half closed lids. His gaze was all at once quick, somber, and penetrating, and it left Mikhail with an unpleasant sensation. The worst thing about his eyes, though, was that they never seemed to laugh when he did. Mikhail took it as either the sign of an evil nature, or of a profound and lasting sorrow. He wasn't sure which.

Maxim hurried over, beaming, and was about to throw his arms around Chuck. But Chuck, with a pleasant smile, coldly held out his hand instead.

Maxim paused. "Chuck!" he cried. "My dear friend, how good to see you!"

Chuck nodded. "You too. I hope you're well?"

Maxim seemed slightly put out by Chuck's formal tone. "I...very well, thank you. So what have you been up to?"

That slow smile formed again. "Being bored." He said it like it was a private joke.

Maxim managed a laugh. "Oh, you, you're always bored..."

Chuck just smiled.

"So, are you leaving?" Maxim took in the carriage, which was being loaded up.

"Off to Pyatisgorsk," Chuck answered.

"But," Maxim faltered, "Not right away? Can't you stay a little? It's been so long..."

"I must go." His tone offered no argument.

"Remember our life in the fort, Chuck? The hunting? How you loved to hunt! Remember those girls? Bela?"

Chuck's smile compressed, his jaw clenching as he turned away a little. "Yes, I remember," he sighed, deliberately yawning in the same breath.

"Won't you stay for dinner?" Maxim urged.

"No, I really must be off."

He was already climbing into the carriage.

"But," Maxim called, "When will you be back?"

Chuck raised an eyebrow from the carriage window.

"I doubt I will return," he answered calmly. "I can't see any reason why I should."

And with that, the carriage was on its way.

Maxim stared after it.

"Well," he fumed. "I suppose we were friends once, but what difference does that make to a fine fellow like him? Look at him, with his carriage and his trinkets. I suppose he thinks I'm not good enough to talk to! I always knew he was superior. Disappearing off to Pyatigorsk. Such a flighty fellow." He was bristling with indignant rage. "He'll come to a bad end, you mark my words."

* * *

Chuck leaned back against the carriage seat, closing his eyes. He had been traveling for most of the day and he was exhausted, but sleep refused to come.

He had heard that Pyatigorsk was a beautiful town. It made little difference to him either way. But it would make a change from the dismal region of Taman where he had spent the past month; he had grown bored of the rain. Still, he didn't expect he would stay long in the next place. He seemed to get more and more restless as the days went on. It had reached the stage, now, where a month in one place was far too long.

It wasn't like he knew what he was looking for when he went to the next town. Or that he even cared. All he knew was that he had to get away; had to keep moving. Had to at least try to keep the empty, hollow boredom at bay. The problem was that after a while all places started to look the same - even so far from Russia.

People were part of the problem; people were all the same.

They all had a certain role, regardless of whether they spoke Russian or some strange Tartar language. They could all be played in the same way. Women especially. He would make it his challenge; there would always be at least one target in the new town. They fell in love with him, and he left. It was easy, really. Not all that different to what he'd done in Petersburg, except the faces had blurred into one and the satisfaction was even less. And it had started to get to him. It was no longer for his own amusement. Now it was just cruel.

He wouldn't stop, though. He couldn't.

* * *

Pyatigorsk

Chuck was met by Eric, a Russian a couple of years younger than him, who he had served in Armenia with. He had known Eric, vaguely, in Petersburg - he was related to none other than Serena van der Woodsen. But he had been sickly as a child, and spent most of the time in Yalta, soaking up the benefits of the sea air. He'd left his own family to serve as an officer not too long after Chuck himself had.

Chuck actually liked Eric; he was intelligent, and could carry a decent conversation. He had actually enjoyed serving with him; had been almost regretful to part ways. And he was pleased, now, that he would have some company in Pyatigorsk. Eric had already been stationed there a week.

"There's a ball tomorrow night," Eric informed him. "Which I hope you'll be attending."

Chuck smirked. "Would I miss the chance to take stock of the women?"

Eric laughed.

"So, is there anybody of interest in this charming little town?" Chuck asked lazily.

"There's a princess," Eric recalled. "Supposedly a great beauty."

"Excellent. Duly noted."

"Oh, and there's someone from Petersburg. You know the Baziens?"

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "As in Carter Baizen?"

"That's the one."

Chuck smiled, slowly. Carter Baizen. "Well. I haven't seen him in a while."

"He arrived today, actually. Not long before you did. Apparently he's done very well for himself."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I'm sure." His mouth curled. "I look forward to seeing him tomorrow at this ball then," he murmured, satisfied. Finally, someone he could really enjoy tormenting.

* * *

Chuck had dressed with his usual precision, donned the latest emerald waistcoat, and had already finished his inspection of the society with which he was now mixing. He had seen the princess; she was certainly attractive, and definitely worthy of his next conquest. The ballroom was a lavish one - Pyatigorsk, all in all, was by far preferable to Taman.

It was then that Chuck saw Carter Baizen. He was unable to stop the smirk from crossing his face.

Carter was well-dressed as ever, perhaps even better than before. But Chuck could tell, even from across the room, that he was as much of a fake as ever. Still playing his part, and still not playing it very well.

He continued to stare, and, sure enough, Carter looked up and saw him. The young man's eyes flashed with recognition. Chuck waited for him to stride over and greet him.

"Bass, is that you?" His voice was filled with false joviality, which Chuck matched easily.

"Baizen. It's been far too long."

"It has."

Chuck frowned, then, ever so slightly. There was something...off about Carter. Something more than his usual falseness. Something too bright in his eyes, like there was a smirk hidden under his features.

"So, how have you been?" Chuck carried on the conversation, watching his adversary closely now.

"Never better," Carter smiled. "My career is looking marvelous, I'm happily married..."

"What a lucky woman she must be," Chuck said drily.

But Carter didn't react like he'd wanted him to. Like he'd expected.

Instead, his smirk broadened. For some reason, it got under Chuck's skin. What was the joke?

"Oh, she is. In fact, she should be joining me shortly."

Chuck just nodded. Why did he care? Did Carter honestly think he'd be jealous that he'd tied himself down to some woman? Regardless of how beautiful she was, it made no difference to Chuck - he could have told Carter that now, and saved him all his gloating.

Carter's eyes landed on someone behind Chuck.

"And here she is now."

Chuck turned, inwardly rolling his eyes.

And froze.

"I believe you know my wife. Blair."

* * *

[1] Almost forgot to add - Russian name courtesy of GuardianIzz!

**Disclaimer : The first part of this chapter (more specifically, most of the interaction between Maxim and Mikhail) is lifted from the novel. I just liked the description of Pechorin - so, Chuck - through the eyes of someone meeting him for the first time. I can't take any credit for that part.**

**Thank you for your reviews - they motivate me so much! Apologies for the slight gap in updates :) And I know, cliched way to end the chapter...couldn't resist. CB interaction to follow!**


	10. Chapter 9 : Travel

He could tell she hadn't expected to see him any more than he had her; as he turned round and they both realised, wide brown eyes filled with shock before she could conceal it.

And he was drinking her in before he could stop himself; the dark eyes, the long lashes, soft skin, the curl of her full lips and the delicate planes of her face; he knew it all, all so achingly familiar, so _Blair_.

He tried to distance himself; tried to take her in objectively. She was beautiful, exquisite even; a gown of rich green satin, the finest jewelry, dark hair pinned and curled elaborately. But even the way she held herself screamed _Blair_, and it was _his_ Blair; his glow in those eyes, his flush creeping over those pale cheekbones - every curve was _his_.

"Chuck." Her tone was formal, her hand held out. She was taking him in too, eyes locked with his.

He stared at her proffered hand, and for a split second he could almost have laughed, because he suddenly recalled doing the exact same thing to that blustering old fool in Vladikavkaz.

Well, what had he expected? An embrace?

So he took her hand in his, which should have been fine. But even that touch; her skin on his, the warmth that passed through them - it was enough to set his blood churning again. To increase the ache tenfold. Because he'd _missed_ her.

"Mademoiselle," he murmured, barely even realising that he still hadn't let go.

"Actually, it's _Madame_," a voice interjected pointedly. "Baizen."

The briefest flash of irritation crossed both their faces at the interruption, but Blair remembered herself first, pulling her hand free.

"Thank you, Carter."

Her face had closed off again. Chuck saw all the familiar signs; the smoothed forehead and forced smile. But there was something burning, now, in her eyes, even through the mask, as she continued to watch Chuck.

Carter wrapped an arm possessively around her. "Shall we dance, my love?" He was already trying to pull her away, and he looked distinctly annoyed. She followed him without a word.

It was only once she broke her gaze with Chuck - and had moved off with her _husband_ - that Chuck realised he still couldn't identify the burning in her eyes.

Certainly, there was fury there. But he couldn't tell if it was hatred or love that coursed underneath it.

He was willing to place his bets on hatred.

* * *

He stayed, and he watched her on the dance floor. Really, he should have left. There was no reason for him to remain in that room. And running away was what he did best. But he couldn't take his eyes off her. He had no choice but to watch her - like a moth drawn to a flame, or perhaps more fittingly, the way a mariner stares at a mermaid as she draws him to his destruction, not caring because the sight is so entrancing.

He eventually managed to stop just drinking her in - hungry for the sheer familiarity of it all, a man starved - to inspect her properly. To take stock. She looked well, if a little pale; perhaps a little too fragile under her fine dress, her features slightly sharper. Judging from her clothes, she had certainly not turned impoverished.

Which moved him to the more pressing matter. Carter.

How? That was the first question. How on earth had she fallen into his clutches? _What _in hell's name had happened to Nate?

He watched their interaction and soon saw that there was no real love lost between them. Despite Carter's possessiveness, it was obvious he regarded Blair as little more than a prize - and Blair? Blair loathed him; it was written in her stiff posture, in every cold smile she sent his way. Even dancing, she barely let him touch her.

Did it bring Chuck satisfaction? It made sense. If Blair had suddenly decided she _was_ in love with Carter - then she wouldn't be Blair at all, and something must have gone truly wrong. Then nothing would make sense again.

These were the rational arguments that were forming, the detached observations that he forced himself to make. It had long been his principle: in pain and pleasure, the soul took careful stock of all.

But for some reason, watching Carter put his hands on her - knowing that she now belonged to _him_ - it drove Chuck's thoughts down a path that made him only want to twist and _torture_ Carter Baizen till he broke.

And all he could think was that it was _his_ Blair now being led by the other man. That it wasn't fair, because he hadn't seen her for four years - more accurately 1,503 days - and he couldn't speak to her properly. Hadn't even been allowed to hold her hand for longer than a few moments.

And the worst thing?

He had no one to blame but himself.

* * *

A trio of girls passed in front of him, and for once, he paid them no notice, other than irritation that they had blocked his view for a second. Carter noticed them, though, and Chuck saw him staring after them, even over Blair's head. He wondered distantly why Carter would even bother when he had Blair in his arms. But then, Carter always had been greedy.

The dance was drawing to a close, and before he could reflect on what he was doing - what was wrong with him today? - Chuck moved across the floor. He tapped Carter's shoulder as the musicians started on the next song, though he didn't bother looking at him.

"May I have this dance?" he addressed only Blair.

Blair gazed back at him.

She didn't say anything, but she didn't refuse, either, and it was all the permission Chuck needed to brush Carter out of the way and take her hand. Carter left, muttering something in disgruntlement. But for the first time, Chuck wasn't concerned with making the other man suffer.

Blair was in his arms now.

She continued to regard him, wordless, as his arm curved around her waist, and her hand rested on his shoulder. Without even a tremor.

"Have you taken a vow of silence?" he enquired as he spun her round.

She arched an eyebrow up at him. He'd _missed_ that. "Maybe I'll speak when I have someone worth speaking to," she retorted evenly.

He couldn't stop the smirk from creeping in. "Well, you're speaking to me now," he murmured back.

She didn't smile.

"Is that really the first thing you thought of saying?" she asked acidly. "Asking if I'd taken a vow of silence? That's the best conversation you could think of after four years?"

He paused, staring down at her. Oh, it was definitely hatred in her eyes.

"Forgive me," he answered. "My conversation skills must have grown rusty. Perhaps after a while of speaking to you they'll remember themselves." He smiled slowly.

"You're too late. I'm already bored," she responded.

He suddenly drew her closer, tightening his grip on her waist. He felt her breath catch, ever so slightly, though she tried to roll her eyes, and he smirked with silent triumph. Her breathing was still hitched, regardless of the expression on her face.

"I think you forget who you're talking to," he whispered against her. Her scent hadn't changed, and it made his blood sing. "I always know when you're lying, Blair. Your eyes have this habit of not matching your mouth." As he said it, he let his eyes trail deliberately down to her lips. He was perfectly aware that he was trying to get at her, get under her skin.

He should have known better.

"I let you dance with me out of politeness," she whispered back. "But if you don't remove your disgusting hands this instant, I'm afraid I might be sick in this very room." The venom in her voice actually caught him off guard for a second, and he loosened his grip, flinching inwardly.

She moved away, and though they continued the dance, there was a safe distance between them now.

Their eyes stayed trained on each other as they glided through the steps.

"So," Chuck said finally, taking care to keep his tone more neutral this time. "Carter Baizen?"

Blair just raised an eyebrow back, saying nothing.

"How did he manage to steal you? Did he murder Nathaniel in a duel?"

She ignored the last question. "He didn't _steal_ me. I married him willingly."

Chuck just stared at her.

"Why?"

She snorted, faintly. "Why not? He's hardly the worst match."

Chuck arched an eyebrow; she couldn't honestly believe that. And since when did Blair Waldorf settle for anything less than the _best_ match?

Her eyes flickered over him coldly. "What? Do you find him arrogant? Dishonest? He's certainly no worse than anyone else I could care to name." His eyes narrowed. "Besides, l believe all the other men _ran away_."

The comment was aimed at him, but it made him frown instead.

"Nate didn't run away," he stated.

It was her turn to stare. "You don't know?" She laughed, then, though Chuck failed to see what was remotely funny, and doubted she did, either. "Well," she said softly once she'd stopped. "Then I suppose you still haven't learned you're not as _clever_ as you think you are."

Chuck paid the comment no heed, though she'd known it would sting.

"What happened to Nate?" he persisted.

"He eloped. With Serena." She gazed at him, eyes challenging him to pity her. "You can't tell me you're surprised."

"He wouldn't leave you." Nate would never dare go that far; Chuck could have sworn on it.

"Apparently he felt he had just cause to," Blair snapped back. "Once he found out about my little scheme to destroy Serena-"

"_Our_ scheme," Chuck corrected. Something flickered in her eyes, then - before she closed herself off again.

"Well. Suffice to say, he was angry enough to stop feeling bound to me. I'm sure he and Serena are very _happy, _wherever they are." The sneer on her face didn't disguise the dulled hurt behind her words.

She turned her attention back to the dance, form still rigid.

Chuck swallowed. He wanted to make a comment about clueless blondes and the foolish offspring they were bound to create, but the bitterness in Blair's voice caught him. Because now he'd realised she was as unhappy as he was. And while that should have given him some satisfaction, it didn't.

He enjoyed other people's suffering.

But not Blair's. Never Blair's. He would never wish that on _her_.

"Blair," he said quietly, watching her. "I'm..."

"What?" she hissed. "You're what?"

There it was; that venom again - furious, burning hate.

He paused. He was never genuine. He never said a single sentence that didn't have a hidden meaning, a device behind it. He had long lost the capacity for noble impulses. So what pressed him now, to _apologise -_ of all things? Apologise for what? The fact that she was as miserable as he was, and it wasn't what he wanted at all?

Blair knew as well as he did that Chuck Bass had never apologised. (Apart from in one note, hidden at the bottom of a locked chest so that it could never be looked at again).

He inhaled, because he was suddenly finding breathing difficult, and he had that lump in his throat again. "If I told you that I was sorry-" he began, voice very low.

"It wouldn't be enough," she finished, cutting him off. She held his gaze, unfaltering. "Not even close."

And then the dance ended, and Carter elbowed his way in, determined to assert his authority. This time, though, Chuck let her go without protest.

He tore his eyes away from her, away from her head raised defiantly and her lips pressed together, watching him leave. He turned away, and strode out of the ballroom before he could see the single, solitary tear that escaped down her cheek.

* * *

**Thanks to GuardianIzz for her great idea! I'm sorry I couldn't include more of it. And again, thank you everyone for continuing to review :) **


	11. Chapter 10 : Travel

Once they got home, she went up to her private room and closed the door without a word to her husband.

She just needed a moment; that was all. She sat down on the edge of her bed, closing her eyes.

Furious.

She was _furious._

Four years. 1,503 days. No word; not even rumours. She'd known full well that he hadn't intended on returning. But she'd eventually realised that she was still waiting, all the same, even if her head told her otherwise. It was how she'd realised that you could have the truth staring you in the face, and still not give up your delusions. That if you wanted something badly enough, it overcame reason, even if it was just in your subconscious.

Even at her wedding, as Carter made false speeches about love, and her mother pretended this had been the plan all along, not a sudden godsend because someone had still wanted to marry her daughter (a highly convenient replacement for a certain other young nobleman). Even then, Blair had, for one brief moment, found herself waiting for _him_ to walk in and laugh at them all.

And she hated him.

She _hated_ him for making her think that, for even considering something so utterly ridiculous. She knew Chuck Bass, and once he ran away, he didn't come back. So why was he here, of all places?

How _dare _he suddenly spring up with his stupid smirk and his voice and his scent (always the same as it always had been; still _Chuck_). How dare he look at her, into her with those penetrating eyes - how dare he take her hand and then stare at her - stare at her when she couldn't even _look_ at him, she was so angry - and then ask for a dance and start talking to her like he hadn't disappeared at all?

And then try to apologise? She didn't want his apology. Didn't want - what, regret? Now that he'd happened to run into her again?

But the real reason she hated him, the real reason her blood seethed, was because in the instant she'd seen him again, her traitorous heart had _leapt. _Because she'd noticed how pale he looked, how hollow his eyes were _first, _before noticing - remembering - that she loathed the very sight of him. Because when he'd walked out, after she'd told him his stupid apology wasn't enough, a stupid tear had escaped - the first in four years; where had it even come from? - because she'd seen the pain in _his _eyes. And watching him walk away had killed her all over again, even as she'd told herself it was exactly what she wanted.

She was _not_ weak. If the past four years had taught her anything, it was that.

She didn't need a partner to scheme with. She didn't need someone to listen to her, someone who knew her thoughts before she did.

She had herself, and that was all she needed. So she stood up, smoothed down her dress, unlocked the door, and walked downstairs to join her husband.

There, just a moment. That was all she had needed.

* * *

"You're wasting perfectly good venison," Carter ground.

She knew that wasn't what he was actually annoyed about.

She had discovered, a while ago, that she enjoyed tormenting him almost as much as Chuck did. So it was no wonder that the combination of the two of them, now, had upset his mood for the whole evening. If it didn't repulse her quite so much, it would have amused her, really, to see his clenched shoulders and that ugly vein throbbing in his head. She was sure the vein had never been there before he'd married her.

"I told you," she replied smoothly. "I'm not hungry."

He glared at her. "And I told _you_," he snapped. "Finish your meal."

She ignored him. Instead, she held her hand out under the table, until the hound that had been lounging in the corner came over. He was the runt of the litter. Blair was quite sure he wouldn't have been her favourite, were it not for the fact that Carter hated him. Apparently he was too stubborn to follow commands and learn to hunt like his brothers.

Still ignoring Carter, though she knew that vein would be pulsing even more dangerously, she picked up the piece of meat on her plate and dropped it in front of the dog. He lapped it up eagerly.

Carter was staring at her in outrage, speechless with fury, nearly choking.

"There," she said calmly. "Now it won't be wasted."

She didn't even flinch when he overturned the elegant table, kicking the dog out of the way (who wasn't too bothered, because he'd got a delicious meal), and dragged her out of her chair.

"Do you _know _how fortunate you are?" he spat in her face - literally, spat; she had to repress a shudder as flecks of his disgusting saliva landed on her face - shaking her, hard. "No one else," he hissed, "Would put up with _this_. Do you know how fortunate you are to even be married? If it weren't for me, you'd still be living with your mother right now, a dried up-"

"-Old maid," she sighed. She'd heard it enough times. Starting from their wedding night, when she'd locked him out of the bedroom and informed him she would not be giving him what he felt he deserved.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Blair wasn't sure when Carter had developed such a short fuse. There was a time - again, possibly before he'd married her - when he had been almost decent at keeping his emotions in check, at maintaining a semblance of coldness. Now the smallest thing seemed to set him off. Especially when it came to her.

"If you don't mind, Carter, I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

She was already turning to go up the stairs, removing herself from his sweaty hands. (Another reason why she _hated_ Chuck Bass - his hands were nowhere near as disgusting as Carter's).

"Come back here!" Carter roared. "If you don't come back here right now, I'll-"

"You'll what?" She looked at him in thinly veiled disgust.

The last time he'd been foolish enough to go as far as leaving bruises on her, she'd made him pay. Her revenge had been cold, calculated and drawn out. She'd gathered evidence on all of his indiscretions - not just the affairs and the whores, but the illegal business deals (because he'd been stupid enough to keep all the papers in one drawer) and dangled it in his face as soon as they were in respectable company.

The look of sheer panic in his eyes had been enough. He hadn't dared touch her since.

Sure enough, he fell silent now.

She rolled her eyes, and returned upstairs to the comfort of her room.

* * *

Chuck stared into the fire, a glass clenched in his hand. All he could see was her, her brown eyes; all he could hear was her voice. _Not enough. Not even close. _And how could it be, really?

There was a knocking at the door, which he ignored, until he heard Eric's voice. And then he was on his feet, fingers still wrapped round the glass as he yanked the door open.

Eric reeled back a little in surprise, finding himself face to face with the man whose eyes were now burning into him, face white.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Chuck hissed.

Eric stared at him, taken aback. He had never seen Chuck show this much emotion. Ever. "What?"

When Chuck didn't say anything, Eric cautiously pushed his way into the room.

"What are you talking about?" he repeated once Chuck had followed him in.

"You didn't tell me about Serena and Nate." His voice was still little more than a low hiss.

Eric paused, realisation dawning. He frowned. "I hardly knew myself - all I was told was that she'd eloped to England. Mother won't speak of her any more."

Chuck continued to stare at him, expression no less dark.

"You didn't want to know anything about home," Eric reminded him, exasperated. "Remember? Least of all about Serena. I asked if you wanted to know the news-"

"About Serena, yes. But not _Blair_."

Eric blinked, swallowing the way Chuck said her name. He observed him carefully then, silent for a while.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. His tone was soft now. "I didn't realise the two of you..."

"We weren't," Chuck cut him off instantly, and his face closed off. Then, more collected, he stated again, "We weren't." And he laughed, humourlessly. "I'm rather tired." His tone was abrupt. "Would you mind?"

It wasn't a question, and Eric obediently got to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Chuck just nodded, a distant part of him grateful to the other young man. Eric knew when to go.

It was only once he'd left that Chuck realised he had cracked the glass in his hand.

* * *

**A/N - I apologise if Carter seems a little O/C. I don't actually hate his character on the show! **

**I know this one's a shorter chapter again. Thank you for your reviews :) And for sticking with the story...this is the longest fic I've written yet. I'm really glad you're enjoying it so far! More CB interaction coming up...**


	12. Chapter 11 : Baiting

**"I lied because I wanted to bait him. I was born with a passion for contradiction. My whole life has been nothing but a series of dismal, unsuccessful attempts to go against heart or reason. My heart throbbed. What does it mean? It cannot be that I am in love, though I am so stupidly constituted that such a thing might be probable of m****e."** Pechorin, 'A Hero Of Our Time'.

* * *

Blair looked up in surprise as Eric walked into the drawing room. She almost didn't recognise him; she hadn't seen him in well over five years. It was Serena's blue eyes that gave him away.

He didn't waste time taking her hand, but embraced her immediately. She was too taken aback - and too pleased to see him - to protest, though she hadn't let herself be that close to _anyone_ in a while. She hugged him back, laughing.

They had grown up together; he was only a few months younger than she was, and had used to trail Serena around as a child, when he was well enough. Blair had always looked upon him like her own little brother.

"How are you?" he chuckled, looking at her warmly. "It's been a while."

She smiled back - and, for once, it was genuine. "I'm well." It was technically true; she was healthy enough. And she was unused to lying to Eric.

"You haven't been back to Petersburg," he accused gently, eyes still creased in a smile. He had spent his own summer there, catching up with home.

Her smile was fainter this time. "We moved to Moscow."

He just nodded. She could see the silent understanding on his face, and, for some reason, it was a relief. He also seemed to know better than to mention Serena, for which she was grateful. "How's married life?" he asked instead, and she rolled her eyes.

"How's service?" she asked in reply, and he rolled his eyes.

They both laughed.

It was easy; so easy to talk to Eric. Chatter flowed as easily as it once had with another van der Woodsen, though Eric was more softly spoken and had a distinct, quieter intelligence that Blair had always appreciated.

"So," Eric said after a while. "You've seen Chuck." It wasn't a question.

Blair stiffened instantly. "Unfortunately." It was only a slight effort to keep her tone cold, indifferent.

Eric stared at her, and then murmured, "I'm sorry."

She blinked. "For what?"

He tugged at his hair. "If I'd been in Petersburg when Serena and Nate...If I'd known..."

It was her turn to stare.

Eric sighed. "I would've stopped you having no choice but to marry Carter." He smiled gently. "My family probably owe you enough as it is."

Blair felt a lump of gratitude forming in her throat, and she was suddenly overcome with a rush of affection for him. He would've offered to marry her.

"Thank you," she whispered. Then she swallowed, forcing a smile. "But I _am_ fine. I can handle Carter."

"He was furious with me, you know." She was aware that Eric was no longer talking about Carter, and she frowned. "Furious that he didn't know," he explained quietly.

She tried to keep her face blank. "Well," she managed at last. "That always was Chuck's way, wasn't it? Blame everyone but himself."

"Or blame everyone else because he can't blame himself enough." There was no reproach in Eric's tone.

She fell silent, biting her lip to prevent herself from agreeing to what she already knew was the truth. Because she hated Chuck, she reminded herself for possibly the thousandth time.

The silence was broken by the slamming of the front door, and the sound of Carter's voice.

Eric smiled, and squeezed her hand. He knew that was his cue to leave. "Look after yourself," he reminded her gently.

She managed another smile. "You too."

* * *

He was tempted to leave altogether. It would be easy, so easy, almost habit, to pack up his carriage and move to the next town. He could do it that very day. He had already half decided on it.

But he had to see her, just one last time, before he left. Even if it was his last opportunity. That was what he told himself as he headed to the gardens he'd learned were next to her house. There was no real reason for her to be there - she could have been anywhere, really.

Except the garden had pine trees like the ones in Petersburg. And it was three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. And his instinct - wherever that had come from - told him, taunted him, that Blair was still Blair.

He saw her sitting at the little table outside, shielded by a large parasol.

She was reading, but he could tell at a glance that her mind was anywhere but absorbed in the book. Her eyes kept skimming across to some point that he couldn't see - a clear sign that she was troubled. Over-thinking or plotting something; he didn't need to see her face to know that her eyes would be narrowed, her lips pursed.

The afternoon sunlight slanted across part of her skin, setting it alight, despite the protection of the parasol.

"Something occurred to me," Chuck remarked, emerging from the shadows to drop down easily next to her.

She made no sign that his sudden appearance had startled her; if anything, Chuck could have sworn she'd sensed his presence. She probably had.

"Please, do share it," she bit back. "I'm on the edge of my seat."

He ignored her, suppressing his smirk that he'd finally got his sparring partner back. Even if she did loathe him.

"You and Carter have been married almost four years...and yet there are no children from your happy union." His eyes gleamed. "Don't tell me your dear husband is barren?"

Blair just rolled her eyes.

Chuck recalled the air of frustration that Carter had - recalled his desperate leers at other women - and paused.

"Unless," he said slowly. "Unless the marriage is unconsummated, perhaps?" He stared at her.

"_Perhaps_," she snapped back, "The affairs of my marriage bed are none of your concern."

But he didn't let that deter him. He was still staring at her. "You don't let him touch you." He was probing, but there was a note of marvel in his voice.

She stiffened. "A wife must submit to the will of her husband," she replied shortly.

Her eyes had flashed, though, and Chuck felt a grin spread across his face. "Unless the wife is clever enough to find some way to avoid it," he murmured.

She didn't reply; but he'd already seen the answer in her eyes.

He laughed, genuinely impressed (even if he had no right to be). "You never fail to amaze me."

"I wish I could say the same about you," she answered icily. She got to her feet, taking up her book. "Good bye, Chuck."

But he stood up, too, before she could leave. He didn't touch her, just stood in front of her.

She stared up at him coolly, but didn't move.

"What are you reading?" he asked. His voice was low, almost dangerous, and his eyes never left hers. It wasn't goodbye until he _said_ so.

She rolled her eyes and went to side-step him, but his hand shot out, and he grabbed the book before she could react.

Again, he hadn't touched her, but tugging it out of her hand had inadvertently brought her closer. He turned his eyes to the cover, instead of her face.

"Eugene Onegin?" [1] he mused. "Indulging ourself in a little Pushkin, are we?"

He had read the series when they'd come out a couple of years ago. "This must be one of the first complete publications," he noted. "A gift from a devoted husband, perhaps?"

She didn't bother answering his question, just held her hand out for him to give it back.

He highly doubted Carter had bought her a book.

He passed it back into her outstretched hold, smirking. "Does the story remind you of something, by any chance?"

She smiled sweetly up at him. "You know, it does. The hero is a miserable man who thinks that he's highly intelligent. In reality, though, he's just a heartless fool who ends up with nothing."

Chuck arched an eyebrow back down at her. "Oh, but he's not the only one who ends up losing, is he? What of the heroine? Does she remind you of anyone?" He deliberately leaned in, bringing his face closer to hers. "A beautiful young woman doomed to spend the rest of her life trapped in a miserable marriage?"

Her eyes flared. "No," she snapped, "She doesn't. You see, she makes the mistake of thinking she still cares for the foolish hero. And, fortunately, I can't think of anyone who would be _that_ stupid."

Chuck didn't flinch. "Perhaps she recognised that they were inevitable."

Blair stared at him for a second, eyes widening, and just for a second, her expression was almost stunned.

Then she scoffed in his face. "Inevitable? Have you heard yourself, Bass?" She sneered at him. "I wasn't aware you believed in fate."

"I don't," he snapped back. God, how he wanted to provoke her; he longed to push and push her till he broke that barrier. His mouth twisted. "Just human nature." His voice dropped, eyes raking over her very slowly. It had to get under her skin. "Its inability to withstand temptation."

She merely rolled her eyes. "As I said, not all humans are that stupid. Some can actually use their minds to _control _their bodies." She appraised him. "A hard concept though that may be to grasp."

And suddenly he closed the gap, tilting her face up to him, very gently, fingers cupping her chin. To make those eyes stay on his.

"I'd be careful, if I were you," he murmured, very softly. "Declare war on me, and I'll show you no mercy."

But, to his surprise, she moved in instead of away, slender fingers suddenly closing on front of his shirt.

"Well," she whispered back, "Then it's a good thing I don't need your _mercy_ to destroy you." And with that, she pressed her small foot down on his, hard, making him wince in genuine pain.

She smirked at his expression and released him, stepping away.

"Now good bye, Chuck."

And she sauntered off, tossing him a triumphant glance over her shoulder, eyes gleaming back at his. He watched her go, and he couldn't stop his own, very small grin from forming, despite - or perhaps because of - his now throbbing foot.

That was when he knew he wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

[1] 'Eugene Onegin' - a book in verse by Alexander Pushkin, written a few years before Lermontov's 'Hero Of Our Time'. The 'hero' of the book, Onegin, is a lot like Pechorin's character - bitter and cynical. The 'heroine' is a young girl who falls in love with him, but he abandons her because he doesn't think he cares about her. When he sees her again, she's (unhappily) married to someone else, and he realizes too late that he does love her...and they can never be together.


	13. Chapter 12 : Baiting

Eric paused as he heard the music drumming from his own pianoforte. The tune was fast paced and incredibly well played; not exactly _uplifting,_ but rich with intricate chord patterns, so that Eric could almost picture the skilled hands running over keys to indulge in the strident sound.

He walked into his parlor, and sure, enough, Chuck was sitting idly at his piano. He flashed the younger man a grin, bringing his tune to an end.

"Chuck." Eric watched him; he knew better, by now, than to question how exactly Chuck had got into his house. "You seem...in high spirits."

It wasn't exactly that, though, as Chuck got to his feet. To the outsider, his posture was careless as ever. But he wore that grin, and a gleam in his eyes. It was more a strange sort of excitement, energy coursing through him than actual happiness.

"I am," Chuck mused. He hadn't felt this alive in a long time. "I have news, _mon ami_. The princess is hosting a ball."

Eric knew, then, that Chuck was up to something. He sighed. "And she's your latest game."

"The princess?" Chuck tilted his head, and then laughed, softly. "Yes, I suppose she is. Although...she's not really a player in this game," he reflected. "More like a pawn."

Eric raised an eyebrow.

Chuck was still clearly amused. "A pawn that needs to be knocked over on my way to take the queen."

Eric stopped, then, as it clicked into place. He gave Chuck a look.

"I don't suppose the Baizens are going to this ball?"

Chuck's smirk grew. "All the _best_ society will be attending, van der Woodsen." He was already halfway out the door. "So you'd best have suitable attire ready."

And he strode off, still smirking.

* * *

Blair's eyes narrowed as she saw him. The worst part was that she'd only caught his profile, and it was all she needed; she recognised him instantly. Why only _him_? And he was looking at her now.

Well, did he think she would glance away with a blush? She gazed evenly back, eyebrows arched. He grinned.

She rolled her eyes and turned to seek out company worth conversing with. Unfortunately, at that moment the princess noticed her.

"Blair!" the girl summoned her, beaming. Truth be told, Princess Elle had worn on Blair's nerves ever since she'd met her. The girl's pretty head was entirely empty. Even the coquettish way she waved her fan, now, was irritating. Breeding and beauty were no excuse for stupidity.

"How _are_ you?" Elle trilled once she'd come over.

Blair replied with a smile, dutifully charming as ever. She wasn't really listening to the princess' inane chatter, till she caught her soft gasp.

"Oh! _He's_ here."

Blair didn't bother following her gaze, because she had a nasty feeling she could already guess who _he_ was. And she certainly wouldn't waste her time looking at him again.

"Oh, isn't he handsome?"

Blair rolled her eyes, inwardly.

There was another gasp, stifled into a delighted giggle. "He's looking at me!"

Blair turned at that, and, sure enough, Chuck was watching them. Her annoyance increased as he caught her eye and grinned again, obviously amused that he'd got her attention.

She glowered at him. Then could have kicked herself, because that was exactly what he'd wanted, judging from the gleam in his eye.

"He's still looking," the princess cooed.

"I think he has wall-eye, actually," Blair smiled sweetly back. "He probably means to look at the water fountain. You never can tell; his eyes tend to roll around all over the place."

The princess faltered. "Wall-eye?" she was looking at him uncertainly now. Then her expression turned dreamy once more. "Oh, but they are exquisite eyes..."

Blair hid her scowl. Really, the girl was infuriating.

She suddenly realised Chuck was approaching them both. She didn't need the princess's squeal and sudden clutch at her arm to tell her _that_.

Chuck came to a stop in front of Elle, smiling and taking her hand. "Your highness," he murmured.

The stupid girl was practically falling at his feet. She held his hand in her little claw for far too long. Blair had to fight not to glare at her - because, really, she could have quelled the fool with one look - as she gushed on and on.

Had Chuck forgotten who he was dealing with? Had he forgotten that she knew his little schemes, his tactics for making girls jealous? It infuriated her enough that he thought he stood a hope of making her jealous - but, worse, she could feel his eyes on her the entire time. Not only did he have the insolence to use his tried and tested method, but he wasn't even doing it properly!

He seemed to realise this, though, because his gaze suddenly switched to the princess instead.

How stupid did he think Blair was? The idiot girl was babbling on about _flower arrangements_. No man in his right mind, let alone Chuck, would be _that_ entranced.

Blair rolled her eyes and pointedly ignored them both.

Chuck, meanwhile, smirked. He'd got to her. Her reaction may have been one of disgust - but it had made an impression. If she was truly as indifferent as she'd acted, she wouldn't be so annoyed at this moment. It may have seemed a small victory. But to him, especially since it was Blair, it was sheer triumph. He remembered to turn his eyes back to the girl in front of him. All he had to do was keep pushing...

It was because he was focusing on that, though, that he failed to notice the male slinking up to Blair before it was too late.

"Would you care to dance, madame?"

Chuck's head whipped round in time to see Blair smile and accept, and then watched in horror out of the corner of his eye as the _pretty _boy - brute - led her off to the dance floor.

The princess carried on, oblivious (did she ever shut up?) as Chuck strained to see over her head. What he saw made his glower increase.

That idiot should not have been holding her waist like that. His hands were far too low; he was standing far too close. And he was _leering _at her with his baby blue eyes now. What was Blair even thinking? Chuck was hardly a beacon of propriety, but she did have a _husband_. And where was he? Why was he letting his wife be accosted in this manner?

Blair managed to repress a sigh of irritation as Grushnitsky trod on her foot again. He really was the most appalling dancer. He kept standing far too close, and the way his golden locks kept falling in his eyes was highly affected. He was a close friend of Carter's, and, as such, seemed to think manhandling her was perfectly acceptable. She tended to avoid him at events like this. Still, anything had to be better than watching Chuck and his stupid games.

And she knew for a fact that he'd be furious his plan had failed. Which, though she tried to pretend didn't affect her, gave her gloating satisfaction. It was no less than he deserved.

She continued to ignore him as she danced, deliberately not letting her eyes stray to that corner of the room (not_ just_ because she knew it would annoy him even more). After all, if he wanted to aggravate her, than he should expect nothing less in return.

"Excuse me."

She looked up, eyes narrowing. What was he _doing_?

Grushnitsky looked at him in surprise. "Can I help you?"

"Actually, I hoped I could help you." Chuck smiled pleasantly, and Blair gave him a warning look, which he ignored.

Grushnitsky frowned. "Yes?"

"If you're looking for a whore to put your hands all over, I suggest you look elsewhere. I could even point you in the right direction. But I assure you, you're in the wrong place here." Chuck's eyes were cold, despite the charming smile that remained on his face.

It took a moment for the words to sink into Grushnitsky's thick skull. When they did, his face flushed with rage. "How dare you?!"

Blair's voice was sharp. "Gentlemen, please don't make a scene." Her icy glare was aimed at Chuck, though.

He merely smirked. "I'm not doing a thing."

"Grushnitsky." Blair spoke to him evenly, eyes still on Chuck. "Would you kindly get me a drink?"

Grushnitsky opened his mouth to protest, but Blair added, "I feel faint. Please?"

So he left, still somewhat indignant, but eager to play the hero.

"What was that?" Blair hissed once he'd gone. All of her wrath was now focused on the man in front of her.

But Chuck glared back. "I could ask you the same question," he answered coldly. "Or are you not married?"

"Yes," Blair snapped back. "So why are _you_ acting like the jealous husband?"

For a second, Chuck was almost speechless. Him, jealous? No - the plan had been for _her_ to get jealous._ She _was supposed to be the one writhing with envy, however much she tried to deny it.

"You wish," he snarled.

"No," she bit back. "_You_ wish."

He stared at her. Then he remembered himself, and forced his mask back into place, shrugging it off.

"Please." His voice was deliberately disdainful. "You forget who you're talking to."

Her reply was instant, pointed. "So do you."

They were both glaring at each other now. Chuck was dimly aware that this was not how things were supposed to have turned out at all. But then, things never did go as he'd planned with Blair. She knew him far too well, and that was the problem.

Grushnitsky chose that moment to reappear, and this time he was accompanied by Carter, who'd obviously been told what had happened.

"Bass." Carter sent him a scowl. "What are you doing with my wife?" He put so much emphasis on the word _wife _that it set Blair's teeth on edge. Especially considering he had no doubt just been interrupted from his latest affair.

Chuck regarded him calmly back, and Blair could sense the cold hatred radiating from him. "Perhaps I was protecting her honour, since her husband wasn't around to do the same." His voice was just as calm, though his emphasis on _husband_ was a deliberate mockery.

The vein pulsed, and Blair very nearly exchanged an amused glance with him. She felt his eyes on her, no doubt to do the same. It was instinct. Then she remembered herself, and just about managed to keep her expression fixed ahead.

And then she was annoyed, because it shouldn't have been so easy to just slip back into old habits. And she had the distinct, irritating impression that Chuck had known what she was on the verge of doing. And the familiar smirk - that she didn't even need to turn her head to see - made her blood boil again.

She hated him. She just had to remember that.

"What's going on?" The sickly sweet voice filled the terse silence. That was_ all _they needed.

Carter turned to the princess, bowing. "Nothing, my lady. Bass was just leaving."

Her face fell. "Oh, no! You can't leave!" She fluttered her eyelashes at Chuck. "You haven't even danced with me yet, monsieur."

Chuck and Blair managed to hide a shared wince at her grating French accent. Considering she was supposed to have been educated, she spoke the language like a peasant.

"All in good time," Chuck answered, flashing her a smile for politeness' sake. His eyes didn't leave Blair, though.

Carter saw. "I think you should oblige her highness _now_," he ground out, reaching for his wife. But Chuck detected the brief look annoyance cross Blair's face at his touch, and it was all he needed.

"I'm quite happy here, thank you." He still didn't bother looking at anyone but her.

She glared back, because he was getting dangerously close to creating a scene again.

Then she saw someone who actually filled her heart with relief. "Eric," she called.

He came over, noting all of them; Blair's tight smile, tense shoulders; Chuck and Carter practically at each other's throats. And Grushnitsky and the princess, more than a few paces behind.

Blair slipped her arm safely through Eric's. "I was actually wondering if you would escort me home," she said swiftly. "I'm still feeling a little faint." Her eyes spelt out that she wasn't giving him an option.

Carter drew himself up instantly. "Don't be absurd," he snapped. "_I'll_ take you home."

Chuck was ready to answer with something scathing; the way Carter spoke to her annoyed him beyond belief, but Blair beat him to it.

"It's fine, Carter. You can return to what you were doing before." She gave him a cold look that silenced him, though he scowled.

"I'll see you at home, then," he growled. It was aimed at Chuck, who merely curled his lip back.

Blair was already steering Eric out the door, under the pretense of him supporting her, and Chuck watched her leave, ignoring the daggers Carter was sending him.

Carter gave Chuck a final glare, and then strutted off, Grushnitsky following in his footsteps.

The princess brightened once she realised she'd been left alone with Chuck. "So," she smiled shyly up at him. "Are you going to ask me to dance?"

"No," he answered.

And he walked off without even bothering to look at her shocked face.

* * *

**Thank you so much for continuing to review! **


	14. Chapter 13 : Baiting

**Thank you for your reviews! I just have to give a quick note of warning - this chapter is very short. It was originally part of the next chapter, but it was getting too long. (For me, anyway). I'm finding that one a little hard to write, so it may take a couple of days till I update again (sorry!) - the story will be moving forwards and I want to get it right. This chapter is because I wanted to include something from Eric's point of view...So I'm sorry if it disappoints, but I promise next chapter will have a lot more action!**

* * *

Eric was back, knocking on Chuck's door again. And, again, receiving no answer. He sighed. He was tired, and the night had been long. Finally, there was movement from the other side, and Chuck appeared.

Eric frowned. Chuck smelt of alcohol; Eric knew him well enough to know that he didn't have a dependence on the stuff, and drank only when he was feeling particularly self-destructive.

Chuck smiled without a trace of humour. "Well, if it isn't van der Woodsen. The young man who stole my fun for the evening."

"Chuck," Eric sighed.

But Chuck had already turned, and moved inside without a backwards glance. Eric followed him, closing the front door. The scene was rather familiar to one a few days ago; but Chuck was in a mood this time that Eric recognised.

He had learned, while serving with him, that although Chuck had perfected his smirk and amused indifference to a fine art, there had been one or two nights where it had slipped. Where the smirk had twisted into a hollow smile, and his eyes burned without recognition. Those were nights when Chuck drank to forget. When even his easy banter with Eric slipped, replaced with harsh taunts and cruel mockery that were far worse than his usual kind.

Chuck refused to talk about them, of course, and Eric didn't ask. In truth, they scared him a little. Chuck was too independent (too alone), anyway, for any of Eric's attempts to help. Sympathy was the last thing he wanted.

It seemed Chuck was having one of those nights now.

"So, how is Miss Waldorf? No longer feeling faint, I hope?"

"She's home," Eric answered quietly.

"Well, I won't hold it against you. I know how commanding she can get." His lip curled. "And fortunately, tomorrow's another day."

Eric regarded him. "You should be careful," he murmured. Ordinarily, he would've said that Blair could give as good as she got. In fact, getting caught in between whatever struggle they had going on at the moment would have been a highly foolish decision. Eric had already seen what Chuck and Blair could do to their enemies - so God only knew what they could do to each other.

But it had struck him, tonight, and the first time he had seen Blair, that there was something different about her. She had always been cold when she wanted to be, but there had always been a warmth underneath; different to the hard, brittle shell that encased her now.

And looking at Chuck, it occurred to Eric that it was almost as if she'd tried to distance herself from her emotions as much as he had. And apparently succeeded.

"I don't think these games you're playing are a good idea," Eric stated. "I'm worried you're going to go too far."

Chuck stared at him. "Too far?" he laughed slowly, bitterly. "Oh, but that's the problem, isn't it? I can't go far enough." His words were no longer aimed at Eric. "It's not working," he muttered. "I've already lost her. So it doesn't matter how far I push, how much I bait - really, it's too late."

It had occurred to Chuck as he had watched her walk away yet again. There was no triumph over her; the only pleasure he had experienced was when he'd caught her eye. When she was glaring at him, and he finally had her attention. But at the end of the day, she'd walked away, and, really, he'd tormented her for nothing.

Eric gazed at him, the glass in his hand, the empty smile mocking himself. The truth was that underneath it all, for all the twisted exteriors that they'd perfected, Chuck and Blair were still as desperately vulnerable as each other. However much they denied it. Separation had only made it worse, given them harder shells. Shells that could only be broken by each other - if they didn't destroy each other first.

"So you're going to stop?" Eric asked softly. "You've given up?"

"No." Chuck stared blankly at the liquid in his glass. "Chuck Bass does not give up. Games are all I have." He glanced up, smirking bitterly. "Playing is what we do best."


	15. Chapter 14 : Baiting

Chuck prowled around the Baizen's drawing room, where the servant had shown him to. It was certainly luxurious. And it may only have been their temporary house, but everything boasted Carter Baizen, from the stuffed boar heads displayed arrogantly on the wall to the overpowering furniture. There was no sign of Blair's touch anywhere.

Chuck wasn't sure if that was because Carter hadn't let her, or because she simply didn't care enough. After all, if she'd really wanted to decorate their shared home, she would've found a way - whether it was a sprig of her favourite flowers, or perhaps a hint of blue or purple somewhere.

There wasn't even a pianoforte, and the only books on display were the thick volumes that one finds in all educated (pretentious) men's homes - none of which looked like they'd ever been read.

"Bass."

Chuck glanced up as Carter strode in.

"I hope you're not here to see my wife." There was an obvious threat in his voice, but he sounded pleased, too, like he thought he'd caught Chuck out.

Chuck smiled indolently. "Actually, I'm here to see you."

Carter's lip curled with obvious disbelief.

Chuck sighed. "I got the sense there was some...bad feeling, the other day at the ball." He cocked an eyebrow. "So I wanted to put it in the past. Offer an olive branch."

Carter frowned. "Oh, really?" he sneered.

"Really. In fact," Chuck glanced at the boar heads, "I was going to suggest a hunt."

He knew he'd caught the other man's interest with that word. "A hunt?" Carter repeated slowly. Chuck could see the idea catching on. "I might be interested." He nodded, curtly. "When?"

"The day after tomorrow." Chuck's smile widened. "And do invite Blair."

Carter's scowl was immediate. "My wife?" he snarled. "Don't be ludicrous. She doesn't ride."

Chuck would beg to differ; he'd ridden with her the first time she'd got on a horse. He knew for a fact that Blair rode very well. He suspected Carter had an inkling, too; after all, accomplished ladies were usually taught.

"A hunt is no place for her," Carter snapped.

"I think she'd enjoy it, actually." Chuck smiled again. "Who doesn't enjoy a chance to watch some competition?"

The challenge was there, as he'd intended it to be, and, as he'd planned, Carter rose to it instantly.

"What are you implying?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Chuck answered lazily. "I suppose you meet many men reluctant for their wives to watch, in case they look a fool if they fail to catch anything."

He knew that he'd backed Carter into a corner, and he smirked at the other man.

Carter's face turned an ugly colour. "We'll see you at midday," he spat at last.

Chuck bowed his head, eyes gleaming. "I look forward to it."

* * *

"We're going hunting tomorrow."

The statement was clearly addressed to Blair. She paused between mouthfuls. "What?" She had no interest in hunting whatsoever. Carter had never bothered inviting her before. She stared at him.

Grushnistky, meanwhile, had perked up. "Hunting? Excellent! Who are we going with?"

"Chuck Bass." Carter carried on eating, though his eyes were fixed on Blair.

She laid her fork down slowly. She knew a Chuck Bass scheme when she saw one. "And what makes you think I want to go?" she asked coldly.

"You don't have a choice."

Grushitsky watched the exchange with fascination, waiting to see what she'd do.

"I'm busy tomorrow."

"I don't care. You'll be there." Carter's eyes were dark, and she could tell the vein would make an appearance soon. "Or are you trying to avoid someone?" The threat, the sneer was all too apparent.

Blair stared up at him. He ignored her now, slicing into his chicken.

"Fine," she hissed. She stood up. "If you'll excuse me. I've lost my appetite."

She didn't wait to be excused, but left, refusing to let either of them see how angry she was.

"We leave at eleven," Carter snapped after her, his irritation at her leaving evident.

* * *

She was riding at the back, quite deliberately not bothering to spur her horse on to catch up with her husband. Or Chuck.

Carter, for his part, kept pulling at his reins aggressively, sitting so high in his saddle that Chuck almost laughed. He could've sworn he saw the flash of amusement on Blair's face, too, but she turned away purposefully when he tried to catch her eye.

Carter was determined to overrule Chuck. He continually interrupted him, ordering the other men around, shouting at the dogs. Chuck rolled his eyes. He wished Carter would fall off his horse. Then he'd really have something to laugh about.

Then an idea struck him. He sent Blair a sly glance - she was still ignoring him - and then suddenly, smoothly, nudged his horse into a gallop. And then he was off, flying down the forest path, leaning forwards in the saddle like he was focused on something, the wind in his hair.

He heard Carter's bellow behind him - "He's seen it!" - easy, far too easy.

He pretended to ignore them all, though he could hear the thundering hooves behind him as Carter urged them on. He knew Carter wouldn't be able to stand the thought of _him_ getting to their quarry first.

Chuck waited till he had rounded the corner, out of sight at a fork in the path, before swiftly stopping his horse and dismounting. He hid in the trees and watched as Carter and the others raced past him, down the road. As he'd expected, Blair wasn't among them. And once they'd disappeared ahead, he started walking back down the way he'd just come.

They soon reached each other.

Blair stared down at him from her mount, an eyebrow raised. But he'd seen the amusement this time; he knew her eyes far too well for her straight face to conceal it.

"Clever, Bass."

"Thank you," he smirked. "But I can't really take the credit. Carter's idiocy did the job all on its own."

She rolled her eyes. "Modesty doesn't become you."

His grin broadened. He was about to reply, when he saw something pass across her face, and her eyes closed, just for a brief second.

He was at her side instantly. "Blair?"

She opened her eyes again, and seemed surprised to see him so close. Still, she frowned. "What are you doing? I'm fine."

"Really?" he shot back drily. "The colour of your face might suggest otherwise. You're white as a sheet."

She tried to scowl, but there was a definite tremor again. He suddenly wondered if that was the real reason she'd stayed at the back at a walk.

"I'm..." Her eyes half closed once more, and he didn't hesitate this time, wrapping an arm around her slender waist before she could protest. And just in time, because she fainted, and would've fallen out of the saddle were it not for him.

As it was, he caught her in his arms. He shifted to hold her closer, carrying her over to the river bank. He held her till she came round, eyes fluttering open.

"What's wrong?" he asked, watching her, gently tilting her face.

"Nothing..." she protested groggily, the hint of defiance there even in her current state. It was distracting her, his proximity and his familiar scent and the warmth of his hand. "I haven't eaten this morning, that's all." She sounded annoyed at herself. "Stupid."

"Why didn't you eat breakfast?"

She grimaced. "Carter slurps his milk. It puts me off my food in the morning."

Chuck couldn't help but chuckle. _That _was Blair.

She sat up, realising he still had his arms around her, his fingers still cupping her chin. Her eyes narrowed.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, and let her go, though his hands stayed firmly close.

"Can you stand by yourself?"

"Of course I can," she retorted. But she did take care to stand up slowly this time; she did _not _want to be fainting in his arms again. And, though she'd never admit it, his hands at her side were almost reassuring - an embarrassing thought that she swiftly banished. She _could_ stand by herself.

They were standing opposite each other now, mere inches separating them. Two pairs of brown eyes regarded the other warily, the silence punctuated only by the rushing river beside them.

He was suddenly aware of her slightly parted lips, the liquid warmth of her eyes; her chest rising and falling, the way the material of her dress clung to it, making him wonder if her heart was pounding the way his was. For all its familiarity, her beauty kept catching him at the oddest moments.

"Why did you come back?"

He was so absorbed in just looking at her, that for a second, the question caught him off guard - and he frowned slightly, opening his mouth to point out that she was asking the wrong thing; that surely the question should have been _why _didn't_ you come back_, why the hell hadn't he?

Then he realised she wasn't talking about that, and closed his mouth. Something flashed, uncertain, in her eyes - and for a split second he could've sworn she'd heard his thoughts, understood them - but then he drew himself up again.

"It's a good thing I did," he answered instead. "Or were you planning on fainting with no one to catch you?"

She rolled her eyes. "I would have been fine, thank you."

"No doubt."

She glared up at him. "Why do you keep doing this?" she asked suddenly. "Why do you act like you-"

"Like I what?" he couldn't stop himself jumping in, challenging her to finish the sentence.

She pressed her lips together. No, she wouldn't give him that. He should've known.

"I don't know why I even asked," she muttered at last. "I already know the answer, after all." He gazed at her in silence. "It amuses you to torture me. To watch me suffer."

"It doesn't amuse me."

He had no idea where it had come from. The truth. Or why he even cared that she knew. But he did; he suddenly _needed_ her to know. Because it should have amused him, and it was beyond ridiculous that she didn't realise it didn't. She'd taken away his one pleasure, and apparently she didn't even know.

She was the one torturing _him_. And she had done for four years.

She stared up at him. "Then why haven't you left? Why do you keep coming back?" Her voice rose from a whisper. Perhaps it was because of how close she was standing to him; perhaps it was that she was still a little dizzy from fainting - but it was suddenly spilling out, before she could stop it. "Why do you keep _staring _at me and telling me ridiculous lies, lines about how we're _inevitable_-"

"I wasn't lying." And the worst thing was that he hadn't been. He'd intended the _inevitable_ comment to be a line - but it had come out far too close to the truth.

She didn't believe him; he could see it in her eyes. Or she didn't want to.

"Why do you keep acting like you want me, now that you've learned you can't have me, then?"

Her voice was suddenly choked with more emotion than he'd heard in so long; it was hardly under her control any more. She shook her head, cutting him off before he could ask when exactly he _did_ have her - all that had changed was her groom, after all.

"It's because this is all a game to you." She knew him; she knew that the more she spurned him, the harder he would chase. Obviously he had never pursued her before because it hadn't been a game. Her shoulders slumped and her voice was suddenly quiet again. "But you don't realise that I don't _want_ to play. I'm exhausted, Chuck."

And he saw it - the exhaustion - written all over her face, and it moved him forwards, reaching for her because he couldn't stand to see it.

But she jerked backwards. "No," she whispered. She shook her head once more, gazing at him, ignoring her eyes glistening with tears. "You left, Chuck. After I begged you to stay."

He opened his mouth, but she still wouldn't let him speak.

"I told you. I told you it would destroy me. And you left anyway." She swallowed. "So please." She concealed the tremor in her voice. "Just let me go now."

He stared back at her. "I can't." His jaw clenched. "It's not a game." He shook his head, mouth curling, and the next part was half to himself.  
"However much I want it to be."

They both heard the clatter of hooves at the same time; both heard Carter's curse.

Without another word, Chuck turned away, broke her gaze, and disappeared.

"Blair?" Carter came to a stop in the clearing, face pouring with sweat. "What are you doing idling here?" He was obviously satisfied there was no sign of Chuck, though. Then his frown deepened, his voice suddenly more concerned. "Where's the horse?"

Blair looked at him, at his mud-stained clothes and the way his eyes were now wildly seeking the stupid animal, and suddenly her revulsion for him overwhelmed her. She wished he would just die; just go away and never come back so that she'd never have to hear his grating voice or see that disgusting vein ever again.

And she turned, and walked away, disappearing in the same direction Chuck had, shaking all over with a sudden wild anger.

"Blair! Where's the horse? Where are you going?! What-?"

She carried on into the trees until his voice had faded into the distance, and still she kept walking.

And then Chuck was there, leaning against an oak, eyes closed. She knew he'd sensed her. He knew she was there.

"You left again."

She stared at him, no longer caring that her hair was probably unkempt and her skirt probably dirty from the walk, that she was now shaking almost uncontrollably. Only he had the ability to make her this furious.

"You ran away, _again._"

He opened his eyes and just looked at her, and then she was right in front of him, hands fisting on his shirt, and he just _let_ her.

"When are you going to stop running away?" She no longer even cared that she was almost shouting. She hadn't shouted; hadn't screamed or raised her voice in so long. Hadn't cried in so long. "_When_?"

And then his hands were closing over her small fists and he was suddenly pulling her to him, hands suddenly cupping her face, wrapping in her hair, and then he was kissing her.

It was a wild, hungry kiss; hard even though his lips were so hot, and his taste was bittersweet, burning and deliciously sharp. Her breath caught, because this was _Chuck_ she was kissing, and it tasted of Chuck, and it was his arms tightening around her, his chest she was pressed against, his breath she was stealing. And she hadn't been kissed, hadn't been held in so long. Hadn't _wanted_ in so long. In forever.

And it was Chuck. Her Chuck.

She kissed him back just as desperately, hands gripping his collar, needing to pull him just as close as he was pulling her. She was barely even aware of the hungry whimpers in the back of her throat, of her fingers clawing through his hair, of her pounding heart or her coursing blood.

All she noticed, all she felt and tasted and inhaled was _him_.

* * *

**Ok, this is my longest chapter yet...please let me know what you thought! Thank you so much for your continued feedback and lovely comments :)**


	16. Chapter 15 : Baiting

**Thank you so much for all your reviews - I'm so glad you enjoyed the last chapter!**

* * *

He finally had her in his arms, and that was all he could think. He was finally holding her and kissing her, and she was clinging to him just as tightly as he was her. Her taste hadn't changed; the wild fluttering in his stomach as he buried his hands in her hair and breathed her in was just the same; the feel of her lips on his, kissing him back with equal passion was even more delicious than he could ever have imagined.

He was hers; completely hers - and she was _his_. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, and he kissed her hair, her shoulder, her lips again. His hands were already gripping her waist as hers slid up his shoulders, curling on his shirt.

But then she pulled back, staring up at him, and her hands came up instead to frame his face. He gazed down at her, her fingers brushing his cheeks, their bodies still pressed together.

"Tell me you love me," she murmured.

What?

The soft demand caught him, threw him; he stared down at her, beautiful in the light streaming through the trees, beautiful all the time, her lips swollen with his kisses.

And he didn't understand.

"I want you," he whispered back instead, lowering his head to capture her lips with his again, because there was never anyone else he'd wanted, would ever want as long as he lived.

She shook her head, slowly. "Tell me."

He just stared. What was she doing? She couldn't actually be that cruel, could she?

"Why?"

"You can't say it, can you?"

He searched her familiar face, trying to work it out; trying to read her eyes, to work out what game she was playing. Because he _wasn't _playing games. Didn't she understand that?

"I'm not playing," she whispered, reading his thoughts like she always did. "I want to hear you say it."

"What difference does it make?" He didn't know how his voice had suddenly turned so hostile. But he didn't understand, and Chuck Bass _needed_ to understand. "It's just three words."

"Then why can't you say them?"

His mouth pressed shut.

Her eyes narrowed. "Because you're still playing the coward." She answered for him. "So how do I know you won't run away again?"

He was still holding her in his arms, but his head was pulled back in shock. It was almost amusing, really - if it hadn't been so very painful. Only Blair could go from kissing him one instant to challenging him the next.

So he did what he always did, and challenged her right back. "Can_ you_ say it?"

She stared at him. "I asked you first."

He couldn't help it; his mouth caught in triumph. "That's not what I asked. If I have to say it, then why can't you?"

She was glaring now. "This is ridiculous," she snapped.

"You're the one who brought it up."

"And don't I have a right to?" she demanded. "Don't I have a right to ask for some kind of proof before I give myself to you?"

He was about to answer, when he realised what she'd said, and smirked. He pulled her closer again, catching her hand between them. "And were you going to give yourself to me?" he murmured into her.

She pulled away, ignoring the way her body cried out at the loss of contact. "Not any more."

He snorted.

"You were the one who abandoned _me_," she hissed.

It was his turn to glare. "Years ago," he snapped. Defensive because he knew she was right, really; but this was beyond cruel. Because she'd let him get so close - and then snatched it away with a demand that she refused to even reciprocate herself.

She seethed in his arms. "Do you want three words, Chuck? How about these - I _hate_ you."

"Is that why you're still holding my hand?" he shot back, eyebrows arched.

She looked at their interlinked hands, then, and her eyes widened like her fingers had betrayed her. She pushed back, out of his arms. "I'm going home," she informed him scathingly.

He couldn't _believe_ it.

They had been kissing merely moments ago - and now she was storming away.

"And how are you planning on getting there by yourself? Need I remind you, you lost your horse."

She ignored him, walking away. He followed her without hesitation.

"Go away, Chuck."

"So that you can get lost in the forest? Or attacked by thieves?" He gritted his teeth, keeping in pace with her. "I don't think so." When she ignored him, head held up, he informed her, "You're ridiculous."

"Oh, I'm ridiculous? Says the man who's still too afraid to go home to Petersburg." (No matter that she didn't want to, either; he didn't know that. And it was besides the point). "The man who spent _four years_ running away."

"At least I didn't marry Carter Baizen."

"No, you slept your way around the Caucasus instead."

Anyone else might have been surprised to hear the coarse words coming from her mouth. Only Chuck knew that she wasn't as innocent as she pretended to be; Blair wasn't afraid to resort to low insults. Especially, it seemed, when it came to him. "Jealous, are we?"

"Of the opportunity to contract syphilis? Not remotely."

He opened his mouth to point out that he would never be that irresponsible - he wasn't a_ fool_ - and then thought better of it. She was the only person who could make him resort to bickering like a child again. So he bit his tongue, and they continued the journey in furious silence, neither of them willing to relent.

As they came out of the woods and the town rose in front of them, Blair sniped, "I can find my way from here."

"The sun is setting," he pointed out darkly. No argument. He was seeing her to her house.

He could sense her glower, but he ignored it and kept his position at her side, mouth set in a grim line.

* * *

They were several paces from a tavern when they heard an all too familiar voice, calling out brashly. They both paused, staring at the party of men that was approaching them on the dark street. The group had failed to notice them, yet - but they would be crossing paths in seconds.

And before Chuck could react otherwise, Blair had shoved him into the side street, ducking down next to him.

"Afraid of what your dear husband will say if he sees us together?" Chuck whispered, though he stayed crouched with her.

Actually, anything that might displease Carter could only bring her satisfaction. "Afraid of what _anyone_ would say," she hissed back. "I have no desire to be seen with you at any point."

They both watched as the men came to a stop in front of the tavern. Carter was boasting about something or the other, clearly already high on success from the hunt.

"Funny. That's not what you were saying in the woods," Chuck murmured back. His eyes flickered down to her hand, which was still wrapped round his jacket where she'd pushed him to hide.

Glowering, she yanked it back. She was about to bite back a retort, when a name caught both their attention.

Carter was crying something about _Chuck Bass, _followed by words that sounded suspiciously like _wife_ and _revenge._

He was shushed by Grushnitsky, and they finally all disappeared into the tavern.

Chuck and Blair exchanged a glance. Wordlessly, they crept forwards. There was a window from the tavern overlooking the alley. They peered through, in time to see Carter and the rest of the rowdy party pick the seat next to it.

"Open the window," Blair mouthed.

Chuck rolled his eyes; didn't she think the same thing had occurred to him too?

She glared at him, and then picked up a loose pebble, tossing it at the pane, followed by another one.

He hissed between his teeth, dragging her down just in time as the aperture was flung open and a confused head popped out.

They could hear the jeers now - "Sit down, Grushnitsky!" - and then his bewildered, "I could've sworn I heard something knocking."

He moved back in, but the window was left open, and now they were able to hear the conversation.

It was fairly dull for a while; plenty of Carter's boasts and Grushnitsky's ill-concealed sycophancy that made them both roll their eyes, accompanied by cheers and loud laughs as they men grew progressively drunker.

Chuck should have been uncomfortable, crouched down on a cold street listening to fools, but, strangely enough, he could think of nowhere else he would rather have been. He could've stayed there for hours, and he probably wouldn't even have noticed. Spying with Blair had always used to be one of his favourite past times. Even more strange was the fact that Blair wasn't complaining either, not even when he moved closer; she silently accepted the warmth.

Finally, they heard Chuck's name again.

"He needs to be taught a lesson," Carter was snapping, and Grushnitsky was quick to agree. "We've all seen him," Carter went on, "Swaggering around."

"With that superior smile!" an indignant Grushnitsky added.

Blair smirked at Chuck, and he couldn't help but grin, quietly, back. They knew that superior smile far too well.

"But there's nothing behind it," Carter growled. "I tell you now, behind it all Chuck Bass is a coward."

Chuck suddenly went very still.

"A coward!"

They heard a lower voice, another of the party, say snidely, "I think Baizen's just upset because Bass is after his wife."

There was a snigger, followed by someone else; "And we've all heard his reputation."

Carter's voice was cold. "Please. As if I would let her be that stupid. My wife does as exactly what I tell her to."

"That's true," another voice reflected, slurring. "How else does Carter get away with doing whatever he wants?"

This was accompanied by jeers and raucous laughter. "How _was_ that girl from Georgia?" one of them whooped.

Chuck felt Blair stiffen beside him. His hand curled, instinctively, on hers; his other had already tightened into a silent fist. Her small fingers squeezed his back equally hard, barely realising. Oh, Baizen was going to pay.

"I assure you Bass is a coward," Carter pressed. "Perhaps he's amusing himself because he thinks he can play with my wife to get at me. But if we tested his courage, you'd see just how weak he really is."

"Would anyone here stand up for him?" Grushnistky called.

There was silence.

"Then let's do it! Let's prove just how right Carter is."

There were murmurs of interest, a couple of cheers. "What do you suggest?" one of them asked eagerly.

A pause. Chuck and Blair could tell Carter was deliberately taking his time to reply; building up the suspense.

"A duel," he drawled at last. "I'm going to challenge Bass to a duel. Everything - the challenge, the preparations and the conditions will be made in as solemn and formidable a fashion as possible."

"I'll take care of that," Grushnitsky chimed in; "I'll be your second."

"But then this is the trick." The smug satisfaction in Carter's voice was obvious even through the window. "We won't load the pistols. And I give you my word; Bass will show the cowardly white feather. He'll back out at the last moment - if he even shows up. Personally, I'd put my money on him running out of town. But if does turn up for ego's sake, I guarantee that he'll give in. Shall we say six paces? Though that may be generous."

A roar of laughter; cries of agreement.

"When are you going to do it?" Grushnitsky asked keenly.

"I'm going to Ingushetia tomorrow on business. But I'll be back the day after. I'll challenge him then."

The voices grew steadily more incomprehensible, but Chuck and Blair had heard all they needed now.

They were silent for a moment, gazing at each other in the darkness, lines of the same thoughts running through both their heads. They started walking, still silent, falling naturally into each other's pace.

Finally, they reached the Baizen house, and Blair turned to him.

"Meet me tomorrow in the gardens." Carter would have left for his trip by then, and she couldn't afford to spend all night plotting now. Not when her husband would be returning so soon, and, regrettably, would probably send out a search party for her. If only to demand repayment for the stupid horse.

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "So, you want to help me." He couldn't stop himself; and, secretly, he was delighted.

Her eyes narrowed. "I want vengeance on Carter. No one makes a fool of us."

He smirked, but it was genuine. He rather liked _us_. And he had to agree.

"I thought you wanted nothing more to do with me?" he murmured. "I thought you were finished with games."

She pursed her lips. "Well, maybe I want to raise the stakes instead." She arched an eyebrow at him. "Are you ready to play that game?"

He grinned, slowly. "Always." If it was Blair, always.

He caught her before she went. "But we're meeting in Eric's house. He's staying at the barracks tomorrow."

Her glare was immediate. "Excuse me? I don't think so."

He rolled his eyes. "We may be seen in the gardens. And it's hardly comfortable." His gaze rested pointedly on the goosebumps that had formed on her bare skin.

"I am not spending the evening alone with you in someone else's house," she snapped.

"Why?" he smirked. "Afraid you won't be able to resist me?"

That earned him another eye roll.

"I'll be a perfect gentleman," he promised, though he couldn't hide the wicked gleam in his eyes.

She still shook her head, glowering, and he sighed. She was just being stubborn; she knew it was the safer option. Decent schemes could not be concocted in a public place. He found himself suddenly longing for her bedroom in Petersburg. He shook his head to clear the memory; he didn't have time for reminiscing now.

"Eric's house," he repeated firmly. "You know it makes sense."

Really, his smirk was infuriating. "Fine," she snapped.

He grinned. "I'll see you at five," he murmured, and moved closer one final time, placing a soft, lingering kiss on her jaw.

He felt her eyes flutter closed at the contact, though her look of indifference had been readjusted by the time he pulled away and met her gaze again.

He watched her go, disappearing down the drive and into the house. And he was still smiling, quietly, despite the night's events, all the way to his own home.

* * *

A quick note about Russian dueling - it was technically illegal in the 19th century, but both Pushkin and, actually, Lermontov were killed in duels. Pechorin is also involved in a duel in 'Hero Of Our Time'. The idea of his enemy challenging him to prove that he's a coward came from the book, as did the idea of him overhearing the plan beforehand. The rules:

1) It was considered the highest form of cowardice to back down from a duel - meeting the challenge was a matter of honour.  
2) To begin with, a coin was tossed to decide who would shoot first. The opponents then walked six paces away from each other, and the first to shoot did so. (So the idea of Carter saying Chuck would back down at six paces = right at the beginning of the duel).  
3) It was possible to back out at the last moment by deliberately missing, or aiming at the air, but again, this was an insult to honour.  
4) Once the first shot was fired, if the second person to shoot was still standing, they had every right to shoot back immediately - and by then the first person's position was given away. So if the second person survived the first shot, it was far more likely that the other would then be killed.

Hope that makes sense...apologies if you knew this already, but I had to check the specifics myself!


	17. Chapter 16 : Enemy

**"I love enemies, though not in the Christian sense. They amuse me, stir my blood. To be always on one's guard, to catch every glance, the meaning of every word, to crush conspiracies, to pretend to be deceived and suddenly with one blow to overthrow the whole immense and laboriously constructed edifice of cunning and design - that is what I call life." **Pechorin, 'A Hero Of Our Time'.

* * *

"What are these?"

Blair paused, staring at the bouquet of flowers that Carter was holding in his hand.

"Well," she responded, "They look like peonies to me." Her favourite. She smiled drily. "You shouldn't have." They both knew they weren't from him.

"They were delivered to the door this morning," Carter ground. "Would you care to tell me who from?"

She sighed. "I have no idea." Raised a cool eyebrow. "Perhaps they're for you."

Wordlessly, Carter clenched a scrap of material in his fist. Written on it, quite clearly (in a hand that was all too familiar to her) was her name.

His eyes bored into her. "Well?"

Blair's heart was beating, but it wasn't because of Carter's anger.

Stirring up trouble. Like he always did. She didn't want to be flattered just because he'd remembered her favourite carnation. Chuck's memory, especially for small details, was flawless. And it was just so unbelievably _Chuck_ to rub it in both their faces. He didn't do romantic gestures, she reminded herself. Not unless there was an ulterior motive. What was he playing at?

She kept her face blank. "What do you want me to say?" she enquired flatly. "I didn't send them."

She saw his knuckles tighten round the stems, suffocating them. "No," he hissed. "Of course you didn't."

Then, eyes still darkened on her, he slowly bunched his other hand on the flower heads, crushing, and ripped them off in front of her. She watched as the fistful of destroyed petals drifted to the floor.

"So you won't mind if I get rid of them, then," he snarled, and carried on till the flowers were thoroughly dismembered under the heel of his foot, before slowly ripping the paper to shreds too.

She merely appraised him in silence, keeping her face an expressionless mask.

"Are you going to clean that up?" she asked calmly once he'd finished.

His eyes flashed with rage, and he suddenly grabbed her upper arm. His fingers dug in, almost bruising the skin. "I will _not_ tolerate this," he growled in her face. "Do you hear me? You're still my wife, and I expect you to comport yourself in an acceptable manner. If you think I'm going to let you carry_ this _on under my nose, you're very much mistaken."

She didn't wince, transferring the pain she felt at his grip into cold loathing instead. It was a weak mind that had to resort to violence to get its way. And Carter was a bigger fool than she'd thought, if he honestly believed it was a means of getting her submission.

She stared up at him, at that _vein_, without bothering to conceal her contempt. "Let go of me. Now." Her tone was an icy command.

He did, roughly, practically shoving her away. She could tell he was angry that he'd almost lost it, once again.

"Just do as you're told," he said at last, through gritted teeth. "You're to stop this. I won't be made a fool of."

She debated replying that it was too late for _that, _but then decided it would be easier to hold her tongue in this case. She just wanted him to leave.

He gave her a final, burning glare, and then turned to go. "And dispose of that mess," he snapped over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.

She gazed silently at the ruined petals, the shreds of Chuck's writing, and her mouth curled.

* * *

Chuck could tell he was in trouble as soon as her eyes zeroed in on the flowers in his arms. She didn't bother greeting him, merely shoved him back in through the front door, yanking it shut behind her.

She faced him once they were inside Eric's front room, arms folded.

"What is this?" she demanded.

He arched an eyebrow. "Hello to you too."

"Chuck." It was a warning; he could see the danger written on her lovely face.

He smirked, offering the bouquet. "I was concerned about the fate of the others. I think we both know how averse your dear husband is to flowers."

"_Why_ would you do that?" she hissed. She could finally unleash all of her anger; all of the pent up fury she'd kept close to her all day. Because it was Chuck she was facing now. Only Chuck. "Are you that determined to make trouble?"

He opened his mouth, frowning, but she cut him off.

"I can't_ believe_ you." She laughed, wildly. "But then I really shouldn't be surprised, should I? You did this for your own enjoyment, and you didn't even _care_ what it would do to me!"

His own eyes were narrowing now, though. "I'm sorry. I thought it was custom to send someone flowers on their name-day."

He wasn't _that_ reckless - or rather, stupid - he'd assumed she would've received enough other bouquets that his own would pass by Carter's notice.

She suddenly stopped. "My...name-day." Her voice was very quiet now; it was almost to herself.

He stared at her. She looked genuinely shocked. "The fifteenth of May?" he said slowly, in disbelief. "You can't tell me _Blair Waldorf_ forgot her own name-day?"

She didn't even correct his use of her last name. She swallowed. She had no idea why she suddenly felt like she wanted to cry. "I don't celebrate it any more," she murmured.

"You love your name-day." He said it deliberately, still gazing at her. She'd always used to insist on the biggest celebration; a huge fuss, a grand party, and the best presents. It had practically been tradition their whole lives.

So he could hardly comprehend, now, that the day had passed into such insignificance that she'd actually _forgotten_.

Until he realised that, since he, Nate, and Serena had left - and she had moved away from her family - there would have been no one for her to celebrate it with.

She was still silent as he regarded her, as he was suddenly overcome, all over again, with burning shame.

Because, god, he was _sorry_ - more sorry than he could even begin to express to her. Apologies weren't enough; it hit him for the thousandth time. They still wouldn't make up for what had happened.

And he could see the way she swallowed, the catch in her breathing that told him she was fighting as hard as she could not to cry. He hadn't wanted that. He'd never wanted _that_.

"Well," he said swiftly now, covering up his own pain for her, "Maybe it can still be salvaged."

She looked at him, but before she could say anything, he gently propelled her to the chaise long, hands guiding her arm and the small of her back, and set her down. He pulled out a beautifully wrapped box and placed it on her lap. Then he took the seat next to her, watching her.

"Come on," he teased gently. "Have you forgotten how to open presents, too?"

She stared down at it, fingering the ribbon, then back up at him, searching his eyes.

"I couldn't," she murmured, confusion still in her own eyes.

"Yes. You can."

It was not like Blair Waldorf to be bashful.

But it was not like Chuck Bass to give gifts purely for the sake of giving them.

He had used to give her gifts, of course, when it was expected, along with everyone else. His gifts were always perfect; quite often far better than anything anyone else gave her. Including Nate. Not in terms of cost, but merely because Chuck knew her - knew her tastes, the colours and jewels and styles that suited her. It had turned into an unspoken competition between them, in fact - who could give the most thoughtful present. Blair knew, instinctively, the tunes that Chuck would enjoy playing, his preference in books; knew his colours as well as he did hers. A regular test to prove who knew the other the best.

But that was before. That was when it had been ritual, just another one of their countless traditions, their games, that they barely even thought about.

So Blair's hands were almost trembling, now, as she opened the box, though she tried to steady them. She hadn't felt like _this_ in - ever, and she wasn't even sure why. She was strangely overcome; almost afraid of what she would find.

Nestled in the box was a book. It was bound in the finest purple leather, set with swirling silver. Eyes wide, Blair lifted it out.

It was a very slim volume, and she recognised the title instantly.

_The Blizzard. _By Alexander Pushkin. [1]

Speechless, she stared up at Chuck, the book still in her hands.

It had been one of her favourites as a child. She had kept the magazine it had been published in, stolen from her father's study, till the flimsy pages were almost tattered with the number of times she'd lovingly devoured it. She had adored the story, in part for the sheer romanticism of it all - which Chuck had mocked her endlessly for.

When she'd packed up her belongings to leave with Carter, and discovered the old journal down the side of her bed, it had gone straight into the fire. She'd decided it high time she let go of her fantasies once and for all. To finally accept how pointless romance and happy endings were.

She stared at it, now, and for a moment was afraid she'd lost the ability to speak.

"Thank you," she managed at last, and it felt like the most pathetic response she could have given. What was _wrong_ with her?

For once, though, Chuck didn't make fun of her as she might have expected. "You're welcome," he murmured back. He had tried to brush the gift off in his mind - it was no less than she deserved; that had been his justification - but he hadn't realised till now just how much he'd been anticipating her reaction.

Anyway, she was no longer on the verge of tears, and that was more important than the fluttering in his stomach.

It hadn't been the characters that she'd adored - as Chuck had pointed out, in fact, they really were rather stupid; and the conditions of the story were fairly ridiculous. Who married a girl without even realising who she was? And how could the hero and heroine not recognise each other at the end? Chuck had used to argue this with her all the time.

It hadn't changed her opinion, though. She'd eventually hidden the magazine, proclaiming to the world that it was childish. But it hadn't stopped her reading it over and over again, hidden in the warmth of her duvet. It wasn't just the romantic idea. It was the happy ending. The fact that, after years of waiting, years of separation, the protagonists got what they'd wanted all along. Each other. They'd spent years thinking they couldn't be together, and then finally, finally realised they could. And it was as simple as that.

Abruptly, Blair realised the dangerous direction her thoughts were turning.

This was real life. It was not a story. There _was _no convenient misunderstanding, no unrealistic turn of events. She wasn't like Maria. She hadn't remained unmarried in the hopes that her Vladimir would return to her. In real life, people like Serena and Nate eloped and lived happily ever after god knows where, while Chuck and Blair played their roles dutifully, and had never even had the option. Chuck hadn't left her because he thought he'd made a mistake. Chuck couldn't even tell her he loved her.

She gazed down at the book. But he'd remembered. Knowing Chuck, he'd probably known all along that she hadn't stopped reading the stupid story. And the book sitting in her lap was somehow the most beautiful present she'd ever received.

He'd remembered her name-day, even when he had no reason to, and he'd bought her a gift. And, she couldn't help it. It made her smile. It almost left her wordless, for the first time in her life.

She cleared her throat. "Come on then, Bass. To business."

They had a plan to concoct. Vengeance to seek, and a husband to humiliate.

* * *

**Thank you for your reviews :) I know this is slightly fluffy instead of a duel...but it's coming!**

[1] Ok, the present is no $10,000 Erikson Beaman necklace...Sorry if that's what you were expecting. But I couldn't really find a way for a piece of jewelry to be that significant in this story - the book fit better. Also, I know Blair in Gossip Girl has an obsession with Hepburn movies, not Pushkin novels...but I couldn't include that, for obvious reasons. And sorry, I'm not trying to cram Pushkin down your throats! Promise! But I mentioned Eugene Onegin a couple of chapters back for the parallels, so I thought it would be a nice touch if Chuck actually gave her a book with a happy ending.

Basically, the story's about Maria and Vladimir, who fall in love but aren't allowed to be together. They decide to get married in another town, knowing their parents won't be able to do anything once its done. Unfortunately, there's a blizzard the night of the wedding. It's pretty confusing - but Vladimir ends up thinking he's married the wrong girl by mistake, and all we know about Maria is that she eventually goes home. The next day, Vladimir leaves the country, thinking he's ruined everything, and he's too ashamed to even say what he's done. Maria waits for him, year after year, and refuses all other suitors. One day, a soldier called Brumin moves to the town, and she eventually gives in and they end up falling in love. Brumin is very upset, though, and explains that he can't marry her, beause several years ago, he got married in a blizzard, and has no idea who the girl even is.  
Maria realises that he's actually Vladimir, and reveals that she WAS the girl - they did, in fact, marry each other without even knowing it.

Hope that synopsis made sense - it's a very cute story. I promise, no more lengthy explanations!


	18. Chapter 17 : Enemy

**To KB22 (and anyone else, since I didn't make it very clear in the last chapter!) - a person's name-day was traditionally celebrated in Russia on the day of the saint that the person was named after. Similar to someone's birthday; people usually sent gifts or flowers.**

* * *

"So we're agreed?"

The plan was set. Chuck would play along with Carter's little charade; he would even turn up to the duel prepared.

Carter, however, wouldn't.

Blair was to going to slip garlic roots into his drink the night before - something he always avoided because it reacted so badly with his digestion. Ground so finely that they would be tasteless. (Chuck and Blair knew this from experience. It had been their revenge six years ago, when Carter insulted Chuck's father. And Blair had repeated the torture a couple of times during her marriage. Generally when she knew he'd be traveling the next day. She wasn't beneath petty revenge, after all).

At the very least, he would arrive at the duel so uncomfortable in the bowels that he stood a high chance of soiling himself. Not only would it cause him pain, it would be humiliating.

Then Blair was going to show up with ammunition for Carter's pistol, _horrified_ at the thought that he must have forgotten to load it. Making him look even more stupid. Chuck would pretend to be suspicious, and accuse Carter of cheating. That should give him enough ground to insist Carter get the first shot.

Carter would have a choice, then; try and shoot straight with crippling stomach pains - in which case, he risked an embarrassing miss - or forfeit. They highly doubted it would get to the stage of Carter actually taking the shot. Especially if he'd had a little accident in his breeches. But if it did, they were counting on him shooting so badly that Chuck would be able to turn the entire thing into a joke. At Carter's expense.

"Agreed," Blair smirked. "We just need to make sure you set the duel for five o'clock. Carter always drinks his brandy at eleven."

"And we need six hours for optimum effect," Chuck finished with a grin.

Blair couldn't resist smiling back, content. Perhaps she could admit it to herself, very quietly; she'd missed having a scheming partner. She'd missed having _him_. It had long been dark outside, and the plotting and close warmth of the fire were making her almost sleepy. She stifled a yawn - not that Chuck missed it for a second.

"Tired?" he asked slyly. "I believe there's a bed upstairs. I could take you, if you like."

She rolled her eyes, and he was sitting close enough for her to slap his arm, half-heartedly. "In your dreams."

"Oh," he smirked immediately, taking the bait, "You are."

"Hardly original, Bass." She was smiling though, ever so faintly. She was too comfortable to argue properly.

He chuckled. Her eyes drifted to the clock, and he followed them. It was late.

"Would you care for a drink?" The question was idle enough, and he was still smirking slightly. But the truth was that he didn't want her to leave.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she murmured back, mouth twitching.

"Why?" he asked innocently. "Afraid you won't be able to handle it?"

The memory hovered between them. The last time they'd been sitting side by side on a sofa, and she'd had some champagne. They were almost as close now.

Blair gazed up at him. "Chuck," she said softly. "I came here to get revenge on Carter." There was the faintest hint of warning, but Chuck ignored it, moving in a little, dark eyes still locked with hers.

"Really?" he murmured. "Is that the only reason?"

She swallowed, but she broke the gaze first, dragging her eyes away. Because she was afraid of what she might do if she lingered even a second longer. He was still just as close, though, watching her intently.

"I think I will have a drink. Get me some tea." Her tone was intentionally commanding.

He grinned. "Are you sure I can't tempt you with some champagne?"

Truthfully, he knew he'd pushed a little far, mainly because he could tell her heart was racing as much as his. He was pleased she hadn't asked him to call a carriage, though.

"Tea," she insisted. "I'll have one cup," she added, "And then I'm going home."

She didn't want to run away - and, in all honesty, she wasn't too eager to return to an empty house. But she wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

He lifted her hand, pressing it gently to his warm lips. "Your wish is my command."

She remembered to roll her eyes as he stood up, still watching her with that gleam, and then left with a mock bow. She settled more snugly into her seat, lazily prodding the fire. Eric's front room really was too comfortable.

* * *

Chuck frowned in mild irritation as he opened another cupboard. This was the downside of dismissing Eric's maid for the night. He had no idea where the samovar was. Chuck Bass was hardly domestic, and tea was not generally his beverage of choice when he visited his friend.

Trust Blair to pick the most complicated drink. The thought made him smile, quietly, before he could stop it. Only Blair. He pulled open a drawer. This was ridiculous. Where_ was _the damn thing?

The rational part of him pointed out that he was probably wasting too much time in a room that wasn't with Blair, and he should just give up and go back to her. But he was Chuck, and Chuck always had to get what he wanted. Just like Blair did.

Finally he found it, tucked behind the back of the pantry; clearly Eric didn't drink tea much either. Seizing his prize, and a cup for her highness, he made his way back into the front room.

He paused, mouth caught in amusement, as he saw that she'd fallen asleep on the sofa. So she made him get the stupid samovar, and she wasn't even going to drink the tea. He hadn't been gone _that_ long, had he?

He was considering waking her. Preferably by tickling her face with one of the peonies he'd bought - that would really annoy her - but he paused, because he was enjoying watching her. Asleep, Blair Waldorf (never Baizen) looked almost angelic. Her feet were curled up underneath her, emphasizing her tiny frame, and a dark curl had spilled from her pins, brushing the pale skin of her face, serene and glowing in the firelight. He hadn't seen her so off guard in so long.

He'd caught her asleep enough times growing up (a particular memory of the last time sprang to mind that he forced away) - and he realised he'd missed the sight. She was always on the move; always plotting and scheming and striving. Even bored beyond belief and trapped in an unhappy marriage. He'd always deeply appreciated that about her; always admired it. But watching her sleep reminded him of how soft she was, underneath it all. The little girl who fantasized about _The Blizzard _and happy endings_ - _not that she'd ever admit it. Why was it that he hated other girls with their fawning ideas and romantic notions, and yet not Blair? In her, it was something for him to mock, to cover up how fond of it he was. Perhaps because she strove so hard to hide it behind her cynicism.

He realised he missed the little girl who trusted him enough to grab his hand and insist that he played Vladimir, smiling up at him with wide brown eyes as he recited the script she knew by heart - and then followed him without question into the next room to plot revenge on Serena for stealing the role of Maria because Nate said stupidly that all beauties were fair, not dark.

He'd tried to take it for granted; tried to roll his eyes and get away like he always did, deciding if nothing else satisfied him, then _surely_ something that simple couldn't. He really was like Onegin, he realised wryly. A heartless fool, convinced of his own intelligence, who ended up with nothing because he ran away from all of it. Too afraid of feeling to face up to it. Why did Blair have to be right about everything?

He glanced at her again, unconscious, and reflected amusedly that she'd be furious when she found out she'd succumbed to sleep on Eric's sofa.

The fire was dying, so he moved forwards to adjust it, taking the seat next to her. Her eyes fluttered as the cushion dipped. He stilled, regarding her silently; half hoping she wouldn't wake up and break the peace, half hoping she would just so that he could see her eyes. He'd reached out a hand, set on brushing her hair off her face to see if she would wake, when she shifted, dipping her head closer, so that it encountered the solid warmth of his chest. She murmured something in her sleep, snuggling her face closer, and Chuck gazed down at her, convinced she had to wake now. Instead, he felt her breathing gradually grow even once more.

There was going to be hell to pay when she woke up. But, unlike the last time Chuck had watched her sleep, this time he didn't ease her off or run away. Instead, he settled back and closed his own eyes. It wasn't his fault her warm head was surprisingly comfortable on him.

And when she seethed at him later, he would remind her that _she_ had fallen asleep on _him, _not the other way around.

* * *

Chuck was having one of those dreams again. The best kind, while they lasted. The kind that still, even after four years, had the ability to hurt unbearably when he woke, alone and in the dark. The insatiable craving of knowing they weren't real - so he had to run away again, find another woman, another person to hurt, to try and stop them haunting him. The dream was more vivid this time; not just an image of brown eyes and the faintest trace of a familiar scent - this time, he could _feel_ her warmth.

Something should have tickled at the back of Blair's conscience as she drifted slowly out of sleep. The warning thought that hinted something was wrong - she was about to wake up and then the dream would be over, and she _shouldn't_ have let herself slip again. This time, though, the warning didn't come, because the dream wasn't disappearing. The warm arms were still encircling her; she could feel the fabric of his shirt under her cheek, the rise and fall of his chest and the familiar, delicious scent enveloping her.

And she smiled, contentedly, in her half sleep, because this was a_ good_ dream, and she was glad it was lingering.

Awareness came, though, slowly, as that thought stirred again, reminding her confusedly that dreams didn't linger. Not when you were awake.  
Unless -

Her eyes snapped open.

She was draped over Chuck's chest, his head resting on hers, one of his arms curled around her waist - and, oh god - her legs nestled between his.

She couldn't have. No. Surely not.

She sat bolt upright, horror increasing further as she realised her dress had slid halfway up her legs. The warm weight of Chuck's arm was still wrapped around her. So she slapped it. Hard.

He was jolted awake from one of the best sleeps he'd had in a while. And not to an empty bed, but to a very real, stinging pain.

"Ow!"

He was met with a pair of furious wide brown eyes - far more real than his dreams - and, in the mean time, Blair had hastened off the sofa, fixing her dress.

Once there was a safer distance between them, she was swift to cover her embarrassment with anger. Aimed at him, of course. "What did you do?!"

He rolled his eyes and sat up after her. He no doubt had bed head, but, amusingly, so did she. He greatly enjoyed her hair rumpled with sleep.

"Calm down," he grumbled. He'd forgotten how loud her voice could be in the morning. "We were up late plotting, remember? You fell asleep on me."

"I did _not,_" she hissed.

He just arched an eyebrow. She flushed, remembering exactly how _on _him she had been, but she wasn't about to back down. "Why didn't you wake me?" she snapped instead.

Truthfully, he hadn't planned on sleeping all night. He'd assumed she would wake up at some point before then and demand a carriage home. He hadn't slept through till morning in a long time.

He was on the verge of answering, when they heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. For a split second, they both froze like two naughty children.

Then their door was opening, and Eric appeared.

He came to a stop. Took them both in - clearly still in yesterday's now crumpled clothes, hair mussed. Both silent, two pairs of dark eyes watching him almost guiltily back.

Except Chuck and Blair didn't do guilt, so their expressions were soon replaced with haughty defensiveness.

"Eric." Chuck straightened, getting off the sofa. "What are you doing here?" Only Chuck could make it sound like he had more right to be in Eric's own house than Eric did.

Eric merely raised his eyebrows back, eyes still flickering between the two. "I could ask you the same question." His mouth twitched as his gaze landed on Blair.

Had it been anyone else, she would have flushed.

But Blair merely drew herself up regally. "Chuck is a very poor host. He neglected to call me a carriage." Her eyes narrowed as she remembered something else. "Or get me my tea."

"Oh, I'm an excellent host," Chuck retorted, seizing something that Eric recognised as his samovar and holding it up to her. "It's a shame my guest didn't spare me the honour of staying awake long enough to _drink_ her tea." Blair glared, and he smirked back, voice dropping to a murmur. "I told you, you only had to ask if you wanted me to take you to bed."

"Well, apparently my sofa suited you both fine," Eric cut in wryly, before Blair could snap back.

Both their glares landed on him, then, and he almost gulped.

"Would you kindly call me a carriage _now_, Eric. It's high time I went home." Fortunately, Carter wasn't due back till late, so she still had time. Or she would find herself in a highly compromising situation. As if she wasn't enough already.

Eric hastened to do so. He did not like being on the receiving end of Blair's wrath; he would leave that to Chuck. He seemed to_ enjoy_ it.

"Leaving so soon?" Chuck sighed mournfully. "And here I thought you were enjoying my company. At least if last night was anything to go by."

"Are you really so desperate that you have to take advantage of girls in their sleep?" Blair asked snidely back. "That's demeaning, even for you."

"I told you,_ I_ was not the one taking advantage."

Blair rolled her eyes. "Enough. We have more important things to deal with."

Chuck sighed. "I trust you can handle ordering the garlic?"

"I'll have it by tomorrow. All you need to worry about is responding to the challenge."

Grushnitsky, as Carter's second, would deliver it by the next day, and Chuck had till the end of that day to meet it.

He smirked. "And procuring my second."

Eric came back in. "Your carriage is here." He paused as he noticed that they were both watching him. "What?"

Blair merely smiled, smoothing down her dress, and headed to the door.

Chuck lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it before she left, and she allowed him to, though she took care to remove it soon after and roll her eyes.

"Good day, gentlemen."

Once she had left, Eric turned slowly to Chuck. He had that gleam in his eyes, and Eric knew that the gleam was not his friend. Especially not when it matched Blair's, and it was focused on him.

"Chuck?"

Chuck smiled benignly back, only drawing his eyes away from Blair's departing figure when it had completely disappeared.

"Eric. I have a favour to ask."

* * *

Blair Waldorf had never been careless. She checked and double checked everything, because a foot out of place, a crossing of a single line or one wrong word had the ability to bring it all crashing down, as she knew all too well. But there was one person that required so much of her care, so much of her thought - because he was so unpredictable, and her double checks were always countered by his triple checks - so much of her care, that it let her watch on other things slip. Only sightly. Only momentarily. It had slipped after he'd left her at his father's funeral and she'd revealed her scheming to Serena without even thinking, or caring, about the consequences. One slip. It caught up with her, though.

One slip now. One momentary failure to notice the pale blue eyes that tracked her into her house. The blond curls disappearing as a head bobbed eagerly, fulfilling an absent friend's instructions, and ready to tell a husband that his suspicions had been correct.

* * *

Chuck smirked as he sent the messenger on his way. The challenge had been accepted. Two days from now, five o'clock. Revenge would be sweet. But not as sweet as the fact that he and Blair would obtain it together.

* * *

Blair slid her book into the drawer by her bed, rolling her eyes as Carter's voice sounded up the stairs, calling her to dinner. Truthfully, it had snapped her out of enjoying the novel again - bringing her back to the more depressing reality. She was married to Carter, and nothing was going to change that. Still, at least she was having fun now. The thought made her smirk as she headed downstairs. Blair liked nothing better than revenge. (Not the person who would help her get that revenge, of course. Not at all.)

"Blair."

For once, though, his voice didn't irritate her as much as usual. She took her place opposite him at the table, and even had the patience to ask how his trip had been.

She was so busy marveling at how the thought of a humiliated Carter made him so much more bearable, that for a moment, she missed the way he was staring at her.

Her eyes snapped up. "What?" she asked coolly.

He continued to regard her, and she felt a prickle of unease as she wondered if she'd misread the situation. There was an odd look in Carter's eyes.

"Did you enjoy your time at home?"

Carter was hardly subtle. He never asked her how she'd been if he went away.

"I did, thank you." She was upright now, watching him just as carefully.

"You seem very happy. Glowing, one might even say."

She pursed her lips. "What's that supposed to mean?" Her tone was stiff.

Carter merely shrugged. "Are you incapable of taking a compliment?"

She snorted, faintly. From him - yes.

"I have some news that may dent your little glow a little, though."

She put on air of interest. Wondered if she should let a flicker of worry onto her face. "Yes?"

"Chuck Bass has been challenged to a duel. By me."

She knew how to play it; eyes wide. "Why?"

His eyes rested on her, lip twitching into a sneer. "I think you know. He insulted me in my own house. I'm not going to let it carry on any longer."  
He was waiting for reaction, enjoying it. Well, she could give him that. It would make revenge all the sweeter.

She let her lip quiver. "Excuse me," she murmured. "I'm...not feeling well."

She went to stand up, and she saw the obnoxious glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He was delighted at the thought that he'd finally got through to her.

"Don't worry," he mocked. "You have no fear of losing me. I think we both know who the better shooter is between us. And I don't plan to miss."

She had to give it to him; it was a good performance. He'd probably practiced it on the carriage journey home. Luckily, she was the better actress, and pushed her chair back hastily, backing out of the room like she was on the verge if tears.

"Good night," he called after her smugly.

Well, he could laugh for now.

* * *

**Next chapter will move it along, I promise! Thank you so much for your patience and feedback. **


	19. Chapter 18 : Enemy

"You're insane."

Eric was staring at him.

Chuck laughed, slightly. "Why?"

"Do you even realise how much could go wrong?" The young man got to his feet, shaking his head. He had been processing the idea ever since yesterday, and it still horrified him. "What if the garlic doesn't work?"

"It has every other time." The amusement had never failed to escape either him or Blair; the peasant tradition of placing garlic on the doorframe to repel evil spirits. Quite fitting that the same thing worked on Carter.

"What if Blair doesn't manage to do it?"

Chuck sighed patiently. He'd forgotten that Eric was still an amateur schemer. "Blair's going to send a messenger if she doesn't succeed. In which case, I'll still be turning up - and Carter's pistol will be empty." He smirked. "Not the best outcome, perhaps, but he'll still look a fool when I don't back down like he planned."

Eric bit his lip. "Chuck. People die in duels."

"Let's not get over dramatic. There's no real risk - Carter might be an arrogant fool, but he's not a killer."

"It's illegal."

Chuck snorted. "And when has that ever been a problem before?" He rolled his eyes. "And I keep telling you, it's not even a real duel."

Eric was still shaking his head. "I have a bad feeling about this," he insisted quietly.

Chuck glanced at him. "Look, I'm sorry for involving you," he sighed. "You don't have to be my second if you don't want to - it's only for appearance's sake, anyway." He did feel an odd twinge of guilt, then. He hadn't expected Eric to be quite so worried. He didn't _want_ to trouble him.

At that, though, Eric's normally gentle eyes flashed. He looked almost angry. "I didn't say that. Of course I'm going to be your second. It's not _my_ safety I'm worried about."

Chuck blinked, surprisingly touched by the gesture. He'd forgotten what a good friend Eric was. Almost like his brother, he realised. His smile this time was genuine. "All right, no need to get offended, van der Woodsen. I wasn't suggesting you were a coward."

Eric sighed. "I just don't see how you can be so reckless with your own life."

Chuck rolled his eyes again, but refrained from pointing out, again, that his life wasn't _really_ in the balance.

It was true, though, that Chuck wasn't actually reckless. Not with the things he cared about. He appeared reckless, because there was a lot that he _didn't_ care about.

Thinking on it, perhaps this plan was a little more daring than his usual ones. And yet, he wasn't afraid. Not when he still had the memory of Blair asleep on his lap, and the mark where she'd slapped him. Not when he had the image of her satisfaction to look forward to once the deed had been accomplished. The shared pleasure of their plan falling into place. One that he'd been without for far too long.

He couldn't help it; the thought made him smile, faintly. "Stop worrying, Eric. This is going to be...enjoyable."

* * *

_"I beseech you, go;  
I know your heart, it has a feeling  
For honour, a straightforward pride.  
I love you. What's the use to hide  
Behind deceit or double dealing?"_

Really, Chuck mused, Tanya from _Onegin _was nothing like Blair. "I love you - what's the use to hide behind deceit or double dealing?" Blair would never say that. Deceit and double dealing were never useless, as she knew all too well. Besides which, Tanya told Onegin this as she was leaving him to stay true to her husband. Of course it was easy to say it then. I love you, but we can't be together?

There was no truth in the story. Not applied to _them - _after all, Blair was ten times more likely to betray her husband than say those words. Three stupid words. That was all they were. Three words, eight letters. Printed brazenly in the text before him. Why couldn't he say them? Because he hadn't. Not once, not in his whole life. Which she knew. Scores of girls had professed their infatuation for him, their adoration; even their worship_. _Mainly because in those early days they didn't know him yet. They soon got a taste, though.

But love? No one would love him, if they knew him. His father certainly hadn't. So how was _he_ supposed to love anyone? He'd been told enough times; he'd told enough people. His heart was empty.

There was one small flaw in his logic, though. Which, as ever, came back to Blair. Because she did know him. She knew all of his unhealthy desires; his weaknesses and dark thoughts - knew them as well as he knew hers. Which is why it didn't really make much sense that _he'd_ been the one to run away. When you thought about it.

There was a knock at the door.

"A visitor for you, sir," the manservant called in.

Chuck got to his feet, pushing the book into his drawer. Out of sight. Eric would be back with more worries, and if he caught Chuck Bass reading a Pushkin romance, he would be sure something was truly wrong.

Chuck sauntered into the front room, sighing, "What is it now, van der Woodsen?"

Then he came to a stop. It wasn't Eric.

"Bass," Carter smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I think it time we talked."

* * *

Chuck was swift to hide his surprise behind a mask of disinterest. "What do you want?" he asked coolly. "I don't believe we have anything to discuss till tomorrow." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you're coming to back down?"

Carter smiled back thinly. "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Chuck just shrugged.

"No," Carter smirked bitterly. "I'm not letting you get away that easily."

He'd come over to intimidate him. Chuck wondered if he should play along, just so the shock would be even greater for Carter the next day.

"I have a proposal for you," Carter announced, stopping his thought process. Chuck glanced up. This, he hadn't expected. He kept his expression smooth nonetheless.

"I'm feeling generous, Bass. I'm not an unreasonable man. I'm here to give you an alternative."

Chuck regarded him in silence, waiting.

"A week."

For once, Chuck looked at him without comprehension.

Carter's lip curled. "I'll give you a week with my wife, if you back down from the challenge and leave now."

Chuck actually laughed. There was no way Carter could be serious. Had the man finally lost his mind?

Carter wasn't laughing. He was actually waiting for a response.

Chuck could only stare in incredulity. "How about no?"

Carter's eyes narrowed. "I told you I'm feeling generous. I could've only given you a night. But I'm prepared to offer one week for you to have your fill. I won't make the offer again."

Chuck finally realised he _was_ being quite serious. Carter, it seemed, had reached a whole new level of repulsiveness.

"No." He said it flatly; so perhaps the deranged man would understand. He could still hardly believe he even had to answer the question.

"You may want to reconsider," Carter sneered slowly. "You see, my friends are under the impression that I challenged you to a duel purely to prove your cowardice. Since you haven't bolted yet, or accepted my offer, I suspect you might have doubted my intentions too. What my friends don't realise, though, is that I won't be showing up with an empty pistol." Chuck realised too late that there was an odd glint in Carter's eyes. "I intend to shoot you, and I don't intend to miss."

Chuck stared at him. There could be no doubt in his words; in the way he was looking at Chuck now. Chuck had misjudged it. Misjudged Carter. The years with Blair might have worn on his nerves, made him shorter tempered - but he was no less ruthless. Chuck had made the foolish mistake of underestimating him.

"Think about it," Carter went on calmly. He had clearly_ rationalised _this. "Use that brain that you pride yourself on so much. You've never dueled in your life, Bass, and you know it. You might've done some shooting during your time in service, but you and I both know who the better shot is. I won't miss." There was cold triumph in his eyes. "And your pathetic life will be over. As will any hope of being with precious Blair." He shrugged. "But if you just admit that you're a coward now, and disappear from this town, I'll let you have her for a week. We'll pretend she's visiting relatives, you can do...whatever it is you want, and then once you're bored of her, you send her back to me and we never see you again."

"Are you unwell?" Chuck asked, voice icy now.

Carter laughed harshly. "What, are you trying to pretend you're _better_ than that? You have too much heart? Have you convinced yourself you won't get bored of her - is that what it is?" He shook his head. "I think we're beyond pretending either of us have any morality, Bass. So why don't we try honesty for a change? I know you appreciate intelligence. Let me be more succinct. You have a choice. Death, and no Blair - or life, and seven days with her."

And the horrifying thing was, it almost did make sense. From an objective point of view, Chuck could see it. He could almost see why Carter might have thought it. The cold reason behind it was so logical, it was almost perfect. Even worse than that, he could see himself agreeing.

Life and a week with a girl over nothing?

Except it wasn't _a _girl. It was Blair.

And the thought was so instinctively abhorrent to him that he didn't need to think about it a second longer.

"I'll see you tomorrow at dawn."

Carter stopped. His entire face hardened. "I won't make this offer again," he hissed. His eyes darkened. "Are you being greedy? Is that what it is? Do you want _two_ weeks?"

"Tomorrow. Dawn."

Carter had underestimated _him,_ though. Him and Blair. Carter wouldn't be killing anyone tomorrow.

"You'll regret this." Carter's voice was a low growl. "I'm giving you one last chance."

"Good bye, Baizen."

There was fury written all over Carter's face. "Death it is, then," he snarled. And he turned on his heel and strode out, slamming the door behind him.

Chuck shook himself. He still had the plan, he reminded himself. Carter would be crippled with irritable bowels and completely harmless by the time of the duel. His threats meant nothing.

* * *

Blair paused on the way to her room as she heard the front door slam. She frowned. Carter wasn't due back yet; she'd assumed he would be gone for the whole day, returning late as he always did. Giving her time to carry out her end of the plan, and even take a trip to the gardens. She'd been feeling restless all day, and she needed to get out of the house. She should have been used to spending hours alone by now; she had been. But for some reason, she didn't think the restlessness had much to do with worry for their scheme.

She moved onto the landing, glancing down into the hallway. Carter wasn't in sight. He must have headed straight to his study. Well, it made no difference. He would be occupied there long enough for her to fix his drink. She waited for the sound of study door slamming shut, so she could go about her task, but it didn't come.

Then a hand closed on her wrist, cutting her breath short, and she was turned around to face a pair of burning eyes.

* * *

Chuck poured himself a drink. He'd been feeling oddly restless ever since Carter had left. He knew he was safe; a factor in the plan might have altered, but it would work just the same.

Even if Carter's gun _was_ loaded, Blair showing up with ammunition would still look suspicious on Carter's part. Chuck could still accuse him of cheating. Admittedly, it wouldn't give Blair the satisfaction of catching Carter out in front of everyone. But ultimately, Carter would end up humiliated.

The realisation of Carter's dangerous streak had perturbed him, but he was still a step ahead.

No, that wasn't what was troubling him now.

It was what Carter had said about Blair. _Once you're bored of her. _Carter did know him well; Chuck got bored of everything eventually. Nothing satisfied him. And, really, what was he getting out of this? Even once they'd humiliated Carter, Blair would still belong to him. It wouldn't change the fact that she was married. Or the fact that she refused to give herself to Chuck. He might wear her down, eventually. Her hatred of Carter might eventually drive her into his arms And then - what? He'd have bedded her. And he wanted that; oh, how he wanted that. To kiss her again...Carter had, in essence, offered him that.

And he was right; Chuck wasn't moral. But the idea had repulsed him; made him feel physically sick - screamed _wrong_ in a way that anything else so rarely did. _Wrong _like the idea of Blair hurting; of anyone hurting her. _Wrong _like Blair's exhaustion, like her being as unhappy as he was.

The idea of treating her as a pawn like he did everyone else; the idea of having her for just seven days, and then giving her back and promising to never see her again. The idea of ever getting _bored_ of her.

It was that sense of wrongness that struck him. Chuck could have sworn he didn't have a conscience, or morals. That required a heart. _Do you have too much heart? _Heart? If his heart was as empty as everyone thought it was, would he have been able to agree to Carter's suggestion? Well, he wouldn't have agreed, anyway, since he had the upper hand. But even without it...no. No, he wouldn't. Blair would never be a pawn. He didn't want her for a week. He didn't want a ready mouth or a body to use. He didn't even want to amuse himself tormenting her.

He needed to see her. He set down the drink. That was it, he decided.

He wanted to tell her - what? That he didn't just _want _her. Because what Chuck Bass wanted, he got, and then got bored of. He didn't just want to have her; he wanted her to have him too. He wanted to tell her he did have a heart.

There was only one way to tell her that, and they'd both known it all along.

And he needed to tell her _now_. He'd wasted too much time already.

And then he was tossing his drink down, reaching for his jacket, and heading out the door.

* * *

His eyes were almost feverish.

"Carter." Blair couldn't prevent the surprised name from tumbling out of her lips; couldn't hide her wince, because he was still squeezing her wrist and it _hurt_. How had he even snuck up on her? She tried to regain her composure. "Let go of me," she commanded with more disdain.

He laughed, though, a guttural and slightly out of control sound. Blair swallowed back a pang of unease.

"Get your hands off me," she said coldly. "You're hurting me."

Instead, he wrenched her round, forcing her against the wall. She couldn't stop a faint noise escaping as the hard edge slammed into her back; and his fingers were still biting into her skin, his face inches from hers. That wasn't what was unnerving her, though; it was the look in his eyes.

"Was it worth it?" he hissed into her face.

She made herself breathe out. She wasn't going to give him the upper hand. She'd been through this before; if he was foolish enough he might kick her, perhaps, or hit her - but she would win in the end. She always did.

"If you don't control your temper," she began flatly - but he cut her off, ramming her against the wall again, crushing the breath out of her lungs for a moment.

"I said, was it worth it?" he snarled again.

She didn't let herself tremble. He was out of control. But he would remember himself soon; he had to.

"Was _what_ worth it?" she sighed at last, with calm more indifference than she felt. He might be able to use his physical strength now, but he would pay.

His other hand suddenly curled around her throat, making her freeze for a second. There wasn't even a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, though; just anger. Malicious, seething rage. It tightened momentarily, and before she could even react, he dragged it down and seized her dress instead, ripping the material savagely.

His fingers dug into the exposed skin, his breath harsh on her face. "Was it worth whoring yourself out to him for one night and signing his death warrant?"

She couldn't help it; she was shaking now. He had never gone this far. And she was suddenly aware that, for once, she didn't really have any control.

Still, she forced her eyes up to his face. "How dare you?" Her voice was very quiet, but she forced it not waver.

This appeared to send him over the edge, though. "How dare _I_?" His rough hands were fumbling with her now, gripping fistfuls of her dress, yanking her skirt up.

No. He wouldn't -

"Did you think I wouldn't find out? That I'd leave to your own devices while I was away? I'm your husband," he snarled, spat. She flinched in genuine fear as his grasping nails clawed into her thigh, realising with cold horror that he was trying to force her legs open. "When are you going to understand? You belong to _me._" She instinctively twisted her face away as some of his spit landed on her cheek, and that incensed him further. He grabbed her chin, jerking it back round. "What?" he hissed. "You'll give yourself to _him _in a matter of days, and you still won't let me touch you?" He thrust his knee in between her legs, grip on her face tightening. "Not so pure any more, though, are you? Come," he growled, "You've already let him defile you - I think it's only right to allow your husband a go."

His hand scraped her underwear, then, and something inside of her snapped as she finally understood that he wasn't going to stop; there was no escape, and she couldn't get the upper hand through words and looks alone. She didn't have control. The thought was enough to send her into a panic; she started writhing, fighting, trying desperately to squirm out of his grip. Dignity forgotten now.

But he was too strong.

He simply pinned her wrists together when she tried to lash out, and he winded her again when he smashed his body into hers. His hand was clawing down again, as he bit into her, "Hold still-"

"Carter?" She caught a glimpse of confused pale blue eyes, resting on her bare skin, her ripped dress; confusion turned to hunger.

It distracted Carter, just for a moment, and it was all she needed - she wrenched herself free, shoving him, hard. His hand made a grab but it was a split second too late; she hurtled down the corridor, stumbling out of his reach, and seized her bedroom door. She flung herself inside and slammed it shut behind her - she felt Carter on the other side, yanking it open again - and it moved a horrifying crack, but she shoved all her weight against it and twisted the lock as fast as she could.

Shut. Safe.

She heard a dull thud on the other side, still pressed against it and breathing heavily - but the door was solid oak, and even Carter couldn't get through that.

"Grushnistky," she heard him grind through clenched teeth. "What?"

She heard the other man's now babbled excuses, stumbling to apologise before Carter cut him off. "Just wait downstairs."

The sentence filled her with fear again, even though she knew it shouldn't have done; she was safe. There was a locked door between them. Carter couldn't get her. And she hated the fear; hated how weak it was - how weak he'd suddenly made her.

Grushnitsky had obviously gone downstairs, and there was silence. Blair couldn't help it; she was wound tight as a coil, every inch of her body tensed. Where was he? What was he doing?

Silence.

Then she jumped again, jerking away from the door as there was another thud on it. Then another. It took her a second to recognise the sound of a hammer. She froze.

All she could do, though, was wait in silence as the pounding continued. She wouldn't give Carter the satisfaction of hearing her speak.

There was another thud; more hammering.

Silence.

She closed her eyes. He had reduced her to this. A quivering mess.

"Did you hear that, Blair?" His voice was calmer now, though she could swear that there was still something deranged simmering underneath it, and it made her skin crawl. "That was the sound of the door being nailed shut. You're locked in. And that's where you're going to stay till tomorrow. Once I've killed your little lover, I'll be back. And you're going to be waiting - and you're going to give me what's mine."

A new fear set in, then. This was far worse than the panic; this was a cold, enshrouding dread. No.

"Sleep well."

And with that final taunt, he was gone.

She sank down to the floor slowly. No.

* * *

The gardens were empty. Chuck tried, with all his might, to swallow the overwhelming disappointment. He had waited. All right, there was no guarantee that she would be there. His eyes moved to the shadow of the house.

It was a foolish plan, really. Reckless even - they could've been seen. It probably made more sense that she stayed inside. But the disappointment burned through him before he could help it. The windows of the house were dark and empty; dusk was falling. No movement.

If she hadn't come, it would be even more foolish of him to go round there. He would risk ruining their whole plan. No, he couldn't let that happen. It would be an amateur mistake; the kind of thing he could imagine someone like Nate doing. Rushing in and ruining everything.

He shook his head, trying to clear the sense of disquiet. He would see her tomorrow. And they would have their victory then, so it would make it all the sweeter.

With a final glance at the house, he left. Tomorrow.

* * *

**I just realised my number of reviews hit 100 - thank you SO much for continuing to review! Also, this is even longer than my longest chapter...more reviews? :)  
Just to clear up any confusion, in case the last chapter was too ambiguous - the 'friend' who was following Blair was Grushnitsky (not Serena, sorry...I actually made his eyes blue/ hair blond to begin with because I was going for a Nate look-a-like to make Chuck jealous when he danced with Blair at the ball. Oops.) So Grushnitsky was keeping an eye on Blair when Carter was away, and told him that she spent the night with Chuck.**


	20. Chapter 19 : End

**"You see, I'm past the age when people die with the names of their beloved on their lips. When I think of imminent death, I think only of myself. For a long time now I haven't been living ****by my heart. Down below it was dark and cold as the grave, and the moss-grown jagged rocks awaited their prey. _Finita la commedia_." **Pechorin, 'A Hero Of Our Time'

* * *

She hadn't slept all night, so she was awake, pressed against the window, in time to see Carter leave. He paused on the drive, his eyes traveling to her, and she saw the cruel glint in them even from so far above. He almost smiled, and it made her feel physically sick.

She watched as he left, knowing she could do _nothing, _and when he finally disappeared, she let out a small scream of frustration, hitting the locked door again. All it did was bruise her hands, already sore from all her previous efforts. There was no way out. No way of getting the message to Chuck. No way of stopping Carter.

She had no control. She had nothing.

* * *

Chuck stared into the mirror. He looked oddly pale, and he didn't understand the feeling of dread that shivered at the back of his mind. He hadn't slept well. Perhaps it was because he hadn't seen her in so long. He tried to remind himself, rationally, that he was in no danger. Yes, he'd underestimated Carter. The situation was worse than it had been. There was a risk.

But they were still one step ahead of him. She hadn't sent the warning that she had been unable to carry out her part; so Chuck had the advantage. Carter should be a mere hour away from agony.

He wanted to see her.

He needed to see her. Just once. He tried to remind himself that, however much it seemed like it at times, he and Blair couldn't actually read each other's minds. So there had only been a very slim chance that he might have seen her yesterday. Almost impossible, really, for her to have been at the window at the same moment he was, let alone in the gardens.

So why did he feel like there was something horribly wrong?

He shook it off. Chuck Bass didn't believe in nonsense like sixth senses or supernatural intuition.

He did believe in instinct, though. Especially when it came to Blair.

So he hesitated, just for a moment. Then he reached for the ammunition that had been left in his drawer. And he loaded the pistol. This hadn't been the plan, of course. Even if Carter's gun was loaded, it wasn't like it was going to get to that stage.

But it didn't hurt to be careful.

He glanced up at the knock on his door.

If Chuck had thought he looked pale, Eric was far worse. "The horses are outside," the young man announced quietly.

Chuck forced a smirk. "Come on, van der Woodsen. Don't look so miserable." He winked. "Everything's under control."

Eric managed a smile back, but it was a poor attempt. "I still think this a foolish idea," he murmured. "It's hardly a game, Chuck."

"Of course it is," Chuck dismissed with more calmness than he felt. Like he could drive out the silent prickle of dread. "It just has higher stakes." He clapped Eric on the shoulder and pulled open the door, straightening his coat. "Come." Flashed another smile. "We have a game to _win_."

* * *

Carter had selected the location for the duel; a cliff ledge. Eric and Chuck spurred their horses on, pushing up the rocky crag to where the sun's rays were first beginning to spread, while the valley behind them lay in darkness.

The higher they climbed, the cooler and brighter the air - till at last they reached the foot of the cliff, where two horses were already tied. Chuck and Eric exchanged a glance. They had assumed there would be a small gathering of spectators - or, at the very least, another person to act as intermediate. But it seemed from the horses that only Carter and his second were waiting for them.

They dismounted, but Eric caught his arm before he could start up the path. "I thought the point of this was _public_ humiliation?" His voice was a worried murmur as his eyes flickered again to the two solitary horses.

Chuck attempted to shrug it off. It would still be humiliation; Carter still wouldn't be able to shoot. For some reason, he had to keep reminding himself of that fact. He hadn't told Eric about Carter's threats, of course - but it wasn't a problem. It didn't matter either way if Carter's pistol was loaded.

"It's probably easier this way," he answered. "Less chance of getting caught engaging in an illegal act if there are less witnesses." Unfortunately, that only seemed to make Eric all the more uneasy. Chuck sighed. "Come on."

The started their ascent on foot, the pathway narrow and twisting. At last, two more figures came into view, silhouetted against the cliff face.

"Bass."

Chuck came to a stop, face to face with Carter. The other man's eyes were bright and hard as flint, his jaw set. His pistol glinted at his side.

An upset stomach is always easy to spot on a person; sweating, feverish eyes, clenched muscles, a stiff stance.

Chuck watched Carter carefully, but, even as his own gut plummeted, he already knew. Had known as soon as he'd seen Carter's eyes, boring into his with sheer determination, satisfaction.

He displayed none of those symptoms.

* * *

Blair stood on her tiptoes again, struggling to see through the window and judge. It was at least light enough to do so now. The drop below was too far; if she jumped, she would break her neck. But there was a narrow ledge that passed in front of the window, along the outside of the house. She couldn't quite make it out, but it seemed to go far enough along to reach the window of the next, unlocked bedroom.

But if it didn't...she didn't have any more time.

Her own window only opened a crack, so she picked up the solid silver hand mirror. Bracing herself, she smashed it against the window with all her might. The glass cracked; she struck it with the mirror again, and the entire sheet fell out. The mirror was now ruined. It had been a bridal present, and she'd always found it ugly. She didn't have time to smirk, though, as she climbed up onto her window sill, and, gripping the sides, lowered herself out, onto the ledge.

It was narrower than it had looked from inside her room. There was only just enough room for her own small feet. She inched across, keeping her eyes open even though she longed to squeeze them shut - climbing and heights had never been her forte; she had never wasted time scrabbling up trees like Nate and wild Serena. She still held the mirror, clenched tightly in her other hand, as she pressed herself against the rough stone of the building. Faster, she needed to go faster_. _

Her breath caught as she realised the ledge stopped just short of the next window. She froze, trying to judge - perhaps if she stretched her arm far enough - lifted it away from the building, mirror held out - it reached.

She would have to swing her arm to crack the glass though. And she'd just made the stupid mistake of looking down; her head spun, but she shook her head to clear it because she didn't have _time_.

She pulled her arm back instead, aiming it at the glass - but the impact, rather than shattering the window, bounced back, and she let out a choked cry as she almost lost her balance - almost slipped - and Chuck's face flashed before her, Chuck heading into a duel with no idea that she'd failed and Carter had a loaded pistol and Carter was going to kill him - and she'd lose him forever this time - and then she caught it again, regained her footing.

She was shaking as she swung the mirror again, but she didn't have time to pause and breathe again. And this time, there was a crack, followed by splintering as the glass shattered.

* * *

Grushnitsky stepped up officiously, clearing his throat.

"Carter has suggested the exact location," he began, gesturing slightly above them. Chuck followed his hand. There was a narrow ledge running further up, projecting out from the cliff. The drop down, he could see even from where he stood, was a good two hundred feet, and the bottom was lined with jagged rocks. "Each of you will take your position on the very edge of the shelf, which should make even a slight wound deadly."

Chuck knew Eric's eyes had widened in horror, knew they were fixed on him now, but he ignored them, his own eyes still trained on the ledge. He knew what it meant; the ledge was narrow enough that, if wounded, they would go straight over the edge and be dashed to pieces.

"That way," Grushnitsky went on, "Sudden death can easily be explained as an accident." He had obviously assigned himself role of mediator. "Furthermore, it must be agreed upon that this whole encounter be kept a secret, and that seconds bear no responsibility."

Chuck's eyes moved to Carter, who was staring straight at him, eyes still glinting.

There was a pause.

"However," Grushnitsky added, somewhat awkwardly, "I believe that since you've both turned up and shown your willingness to fight, the debt of honour no longer remains. Since that is proven, I have to ask if there is still the possibility that you might come to an understanding, and end this affair in a friendly fashion."

Carter was watching him even more intently now.

This was it. This was the point; the moment that Chuck could back out. Their plan had failed. All Chuck had to do was say that he no longer wished to actually fight. Accept Carter's terms, and stand a chance of walking away with his life. Technically, he would still even have his honour.

Chuck was proud to the point of arrogance, but he was not a fool. Life; self-preservation always came ahead of society's conception of honour. He had never cared what anyone else thought of him - so what if they thought him selfish?

Carter was right. He was a coward. He had been playing the coward for a long time.

He could walk away now; run away like he always did. And never see Blair again.

Because, looking at Carter now, that was what it came down to. His life in exchange for staying away from her. All that Carter wanted was for Chuck to lose her. If that had to be accomplished through killing him, then so be it. As long as they still had any form of contact, Chuck knew, Carter would be after him.

Chuck wasn't noble. Chuck would never dream of something as selfless as dying for love. He would've said he pitied any fool that did.

But Chuck had spent four years without Blair, and, when it came down to it, his life without her wasn't really life. He had spent four years indifferent to everything; four years trying to escape the fact that she caught up with him everywhere he went.

If he walked away now, that was what he was facing all over again. And that was how it would be, forever, until he died or she died or Carter died. But even if she died, she would still haunt him. And that would be even worse.

He looked at Carter, looked at his cold eyes and the gleam of his pistol. That was what it came down to. Death was better than a life without Blair.

"There is none."

His voice was surprisingly calm, considering he had just cut off his final escape route. Because there was no other way.

Carter's eyes narrowed, and Chuck could've sworn he saw a flicker of pleasure.

"None from me, either."

Grushnitsky hesitated. "Very well," he said at last. "Then you'll shoot it out."

* * *

Blair fumbled to saddle the horse without a groom. She hadn't even been able to find a side saddle; she didn't know where the tack was kept. The indignity of riding like a man - in a dress - was the last thing on her mind. She was well-accustomed to the elegance of sidesaddle, the grace required for jumping and the poise of dressage. But galloping like a savage?

She paused before she mounted, because something had caught her eye.

Carter's hunting rifle.

* * *

They started the walk up the narrow ledge; Carter and Chuck in front, followed by their seconds. The path grew narrower, the ground sandy. It reminded Chuck of an arena, and the thought made his mouth twitch despite himself.

"I have to say, I'm surprised you didn't take your pathetic life and run, Bass."

Chuck threw Carter a glance. "Surely you must be accustomed to being wrong by now?" he asked lazily. Lazy because he knew that was what would get to him.

Carter's lip curled. "Your little quips won't matter won't sound quite so clever when you're facing my bullet."

Chuck merely snorted.

Carter looked at him then, and laughed quietly. The sound rubbed under Chuck's skin. "You really do think you're in love, don't you?" he asked suddenly. "You've deluded yourself into thinking you can be a hero for her. How _sweet_." Chuck's jaw tightened, ever so slightly, but he knew what Baizen was doing, so he simply rolled his eyes.

Carter's smile twisted. "She doesn't think you can do it. She knows what a coward you are." They were nearing their destination, the path narrow enough now that they had to walk single file, and Chuck tried to block out Carter's words. "In fact, she was so convinced you'd fail, she made a deal. Did you know that? Did she tell you?" Carter paused deliberately. "Or perhaps it was your idea in the first place? Did you beg her to do it for you?"

Chuck kept his cool exterior. "What are you talking about?" he asked calmly, coldly.

"So you don't know?" Carter laughed again. "She came to me last night and _begged_ me not to kill you. She offered herself."

They had reached the ledge. For now, they were alone; Eric and Grushnitsky were several paces behind, round the twist in the path.

Chuck stared at him, trying to conceal how he had frozen. "You're lying," he said flatly, trying to scoff. She wouldn't do that. Blair was not above manipulation, bribery or blackmail. She was as good at bargaining and twisting to get her way as he was. And then, for a moment, his doubt flickered. Would she have done that for _him_?

"She gave herself to me for the night. Do you know what the best part was, though? What made it all the sweeter? All the while I was making her moan, I knew full well that I'd be killing you today anyway. She threw herself away for nothing. And after I kill you, I get to go back and see her face as she finds out."

Chuck's blood had turned to ice.

But before he could say anything, _do_ anything, Eric and Grushnitsky had arrived and moved between them.

"Are you ready for me to toss a coin?" Grushnitsky asked.

Eric's eyes tried again, in vain, to meet Chuck's. He had realised, horrified, Chuck wasn't going to back down. So he had kept silent, for him - even though he wanted to scream that he was being insane. A dead Chuck wouldn't solve anything.

But now, seeing Chuck's face and the look in his eye, Eric reconsidered; because the look actually almost scared him.

Chuck wanted Carter dead. It was written on every inch of his face.

So all Eric could do was pray, now, that Chuck would get the first shot. So that he at least stood a chance.

Because there was no way Carter would miss.

Grushnitsky flipped the coin - "Heads," Carter called, as Chuck summoned, "Tails."

There was silence as the coin fell. Four pairs of eyes trained on the side facing them.

Heads.


	21. Chapter 20 : End

Six paces were measured out, projecting at an angle so that each opponent was as close to the jutting edge as possible. The two enemies faced each other one last time before they took their places.

It was no longer a matter of choosing not to run away; now all Chuck cared about was that Carter didn't win. Because, even worse than the thought of his life without Blair, was hers without him. Hers with Carter. Having to spend the rest of her years with the monster standing in front of him. He couldn't let that happen.

"You're lucky," he said softly. "You have the first shot. But you better make sure you kill me, because if not - I won't miss."

Carter merely sneered, shifting his pistol with ease. "You won't have to worry about that."

"Take your positions," Grushnitsky instructed, voice high.

The seconds had already moved to the side, away from the ledge itself and ready to watch.

Chuck moved to his place at the far corner of the ledge, gripping his pistol tightly. He braced his foot against the rock with the hope that it would prevent him falling over the edge, in the slim chance that he was only lightly wounded when Carter shot.

Carter wasn't going to miss.

He wasn't going to miss, and there was no going back. Chuck was going to die, and he was going to leave Blair alone all over again. He would fail to protect her - again.

Carter had judged the distance. He knew exactly where he had to aim, and his blood was coursing with excitement.

He had hated Chuck Bass his whole life.

Had hated his smirk, his taunts; his lazy defiance for his superiors. Because Carter should have been superior - he was older, more experienced. He had _defined_ the smirk before Chuck had arrived to rival it. Bass was the first person in Carter's life to defy him. Like an irritating little fly in the ointment - a fly that refused to go away, lingered with that smirk that said he knew what Carter was. Chuck Bass had been determined from the beginning to take everything that was Carter's. He wasn't like Nathaniel, easy to take down - because it seemed he had nothing to lose. Carter couldn't crush someone who cared about nothing.

But he'd found it; finally found his weak spot - and it was in the form of a small brunette at his side with a matching smirk. Carter had stolen her because she was Chuck's, and she might have been the one thing Chuck cared about. But his delightful plan had backfired, because his new little wife was simply Chuck in woman's form. The same smirks, the same taunts, the same defiance. And, even worse, all from his own bride. A mere girl.

She'd never let Carter own her, and it drove him insane. And all it took was Chuck coming back, and she was his once more, regardless of any marriage certificate. A blatant reminder that she'd never been Carter's; he hadn't even managed to steal her properly.

No more.

Once Chuck's bloodstained corpse lined the bottom of the abyss, he would have her no longer. How long had Carter fantasized about burying a bullet in Chuck's smug face?

His hand tensed on the cool handle of the pistol, expert in his grip. Grushnitsky gave the signal, and Carter cocked the gun back. His hand was steady as he raised it, finger sliding smoothly to the trigger-

"Carter."

The small voice carried in the wind and an apparition appeared before him; face pale, brown eyes filled with cold loathing, dark curls framing her face in the wind, the muzzle of a gun - his hunting gun, he realised confusedly - aimed straight at him. It made him jerk backwards, catching him; his hand squeezing the trigger almost as a reflex - but the trajectory was all wrong now, skewed -

Chuck heard the shot, body tensed, waiting for the end - and he felt the bullet whiz by him. Missing by mere seconds. For a split second, he froze; how could he still be alive? And then it kicked in, his mission - he wasn't dead and he wasn't leaving Blair, and he had his chance to destroy Carter once and for all. He cocked the pistol, whirling round.

A shot.

Two pairs of dark eyes met each other as the figure in the middle buckled under the impact. Carter staggered back, and his foot slipped, and then, as they both watched, two guns still pointing and held in tight grips, his body tipped over the edge.

Carter was gone.

Grushnitsky was still struggling to understand what had happened - Blair had sprung up from nowhere - Carter had gone over the ledge - Chuck was still standing. The last registered the most clearly, along with Carter's earlier order. No matter what happened, Bass was not to leave alive.

Hands fumbling, he reached for his own pistol, and, before any of them could react - none of them were looking at him, anyway - he took shaky aim and fired.

Blair heard the third shot, saw Chuck stop in his tracks, falter backwards. His eyes were suddenly darkened with pain.

He teetered, dangerously close to the edge, and she could've sworn her heart stopped beating as his foot hit nothing.

"No!" It ripped out of her before she could stop it, and she tumbled forwards, towards him, as he rocked and she caught him, yanking him away from the edge with all her might, pulling him back. The force knocked them both back, into the safety of cliff, where they collapsed on the ground. She didn't stop, though; she struggled to sit up, turn him over, wrapping her arms around him, clinging to him. His face was white.

She was barely aware of Grushnitsky aiming again, of Eric tackling him, smashing the pistol out of his hands and knocking him unconscious.

Chuck was still. Blair could see the blood staining the front of his jacket, the pure white of his shirt.

"No," she muttered desperately, again and again, feeling for his heart, his breathing. She tilted his face up, cupping it in her hands, brushing his hair off. "Come on, Chuck," she hissed. "Wake up. You're not allowed to die."

His eyes fluttered and unfocused, closed again. His breathing was there, but it was shallow as he slipped out of consciousness again.

"You're not leaving me," she insisted, not even noticing her own tears as she gripped his broad shoulders. His body was still warm. "Do you hear me? You can't."

Then Eric was at her side, helping her tug off Chuck's jacket to get to the wound, his hands steadier than hers. Eric had some experience in medicine from his service; he just didn't know if it was enough. The wound was a deep hole in Chuck's side, but Eric couldn't tell if it had hit any of his internal organs. If it had, Chuck wouldn't be alive for much longer.

He was still losing blood, his face losing even more colour.

They tore strips from Blair's dress and Chuck's now discarded jacket and shirt, trying to staunch the wound.

"He needs a doctor," Eric muttered once they'd finished. He was already getting to his feet, eyes flickering anxiously down the path, calculating how much time it would take to get back to town. Blair was still gripping Chuck's hand.

"I'll stay with him. Go." Her voice was shaky, tight.

Eric nodded. He spared Grushnitsky a swift glance - no danger there, he was out for the count, and Eric had bound his hands and disarmed him, anyway - before he broke into a sprint.

Blair was too busy watching Chuck to see Eric disappear down the path. A fine sweat had broken out on his brow, and she kissed it, pressing her lips to him like that could make him hold on.

"Please," she whispered against his skin. "I'm begging now. Don't you dare do this to me."

She couldn't lose him. Not now. The bleeding had at least been stopped, but he still wasn't gaining consciousness, and his face was still far too pale.

"You're not allowed to die," she murmured again. "You haven't told me you love me yet. I'm not letting you get away with that."

He was still as she cradled his head, but she could feel his heart beating underneath her. He was still there. Her fingers traced the familiar planes of his cheeks, burying in his thick hair as her own tears fell.

"Chuck Bass," she whispered, "I love you. I love you so much it consumes me." Her voice shook fervently. "And I know you love me too." She eased her body down next to his, curling into his side, their hands still interlinked. "And I'm not letting you die without admitting it."

* * *

She didn't know how long she had lain there, clinging numbly to him, trying to keep him warm. She didn't take her eyes off him for even a second - because this _wasn't_ going to be like the last time she'd held him and begged him to stay, where she'd allowed her eyes to close and he'd slipped away from her in the middle of the night.

It was cold on top of the cliff, but she hardly noticed. She was only dimly aware when Eric returned, accompanied by a group of men, a stretcher, and a doctor; their voices sounded far off. They had to prise her away from Chuck to get him onto the stretcher - she tried to hold on, struggling, but Eric caught her and soothed her, wrapping his arms around her.

"It's all right, Blair. They've got him now."

She allowed Eric to carry her back down the cliff, though usually she would've fought with all her might and insisted on walking - but her legs were strangely weak, and, from Eric's arms, she could see Chuck on the stretcher.

"He's going to be all right," Eric promised as he helped her onto a horse. He climbed up behind her, supporting her, and she was distantly grateful for the circle of his arms. "It's over."

* * *

**Thank you for your wonderful reviews! **


	22. Chapter 21 : End

"You seem to have a habit of falling asleep on me, Waldorf."

The voice was low and hoarse but distinctly amused.

Blair jolted up, lifting her head from Chuck's lap where she had drifted off in the chair next to his bed.

He was awake.

Her eyes searched his face, relishing in the return of his hazel eyes gazing straight back at her. She had only seen them closed as he'd drifted in and out of fevered consciousness. His face was still paler than usual, shadows under his eyes. And she could tell from the way he held himself that his wound still hurt.

She wanted to throw her arms around him and cover his familiar face in kisses because he was awake, and here, and alive.

Instead, lump forming in her throat, she moved to pick up the pitcher of water and focused on pouring him a drink. "How are you feeling?"

He rolled his eyes as he accepted the cup, their hands brushing.

"Much better, nurse Waldorf," he answered wryly. "And yourself?"

"I'm not the one who got shot."

He glanced up, then, and he saw properly the dark circles and exhausted worry in her brown eyes. Instinctively, his hand curled over hers, taking it in his grip. She didn't pull away.

They sat in silence for a moment, fingers linked.

"How long was I out for?" he asked quietly at last.

"Three days."

He had been semi aware of time passing; of a raging burning, flickering lights, voices and darkness that blended into one. And one presence at his side, one voice that had even uttered phrases he'd understood, swimming round in his head, real or dreamt - because he had dreamt of Carter too, dreamt of Carter watching him and laughing - dreamt of a small hand gripping his, of horses hooves and echoing gunshots and warm brown eyes.

He knew he must have been delusional at times, and he paused before asking the next question. Because he was suddenly worried, uncertain in case he'd just imagined her presence.

And that thought was enough to make him hesitate, though he had to know.

"How long have you been here?"

"Three days."

Her voice was very quiet, and her fingers in his tensed, ever so slightly. He squeezed them. She relaxed, slightly.

He tried to sit up, wincing at the ache in his side; his hand gripped hers for a moment and she gripped back. He glanced around the room, realising he didn't recognise it as his own.

"We're in Eric's house," Blair answered, following his gaze.

"How is he?"

"Worried about you." But there was gentle amusement in her eyes when he looked at her, despite her reproachful tone.

His hand moved to his wound as he gazed down at it. It had obviously been treated, and the realisation made him look up again. A doctor had seen him. With a gunshot wound. And Carter's body -

Blair's eyes met his.

"What happened to Grushnitsky?" he managed. He couldn't quite bring himself to mention everything else, but she knew what he meant.

She paused for a second. "Carter decided not to challenge you to a duel." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "He lured you up to the cliff instead, intending to kill you. He shot you." Her eyes slid to his wound. "But, luckily, it wasn't fatal. Then you, Grushnitsky and Eric managed to wrestle the pistol off him before he could do anything else." She swallowed. "Unfortunately, in the struggle, Carter lost his footing and fell."

"And Grushnitsky agrees to this?"

"He's already testified."

The alternative for him was facing charges of attempted murder and illegal dueling. Of course he agreed.

Chuck nodded, slowly.

"Eric's sorted all of it," she assured him softly. He could tell she was nowhere near as distant from it as she was pretending to be. He wondered if the image of Carter tipping over the edge was as branded in her mind as it was his.

"Blair." His fingers were still wrapped around hers. "The night before the duel. What happened?" He had to ask; he had to know she was all right.

She immediately went very stiff. Almost recoiled. When she spoke, her voice was sharp and cold. "Nothing." Something had closed off in her eyes; he could see it.

"Blair." He didn't let go.

Her hand started to slip out of his as her lips pressed together. "It doesn't matter."

He didn't let her move away, though; gently, firmly catching her wrist instead. "It _does_ matter." His eyes locked with hers. "Did he hurt you?"

"I don't want to talk about it!"

She had snatched her hand away completely now, yanking it out of his hold, entire body rigid.

There were footsteps; her raised voice had alerted Eric. His head appeared around the door.

"You're awake."

He took in the scene before him; Blair tense and almost on her feet, Chuck reaching for her with a look on his face that Eric couldn't quite describe.

"Yes, he is," Blair said jerkily. "And it's time I went home." She was backing away from him, from both of them, smoothing her dress and looking at anywhere but Chuck.

"Blair-" Chuck had actually moved out of the bed, set on going after her, before his wound caught him and he flinched, grunting slightly.

Blair stopped at that, and Eric could've sworn she was on the verge of running over to help him back into bed. Eric had got there first though, so she just stood there.

"Blair," Chuck's voice was set. He gave up on moving, but he brushed Eric away. His eyes stayed on her and her alone. "Don't."

Don't run away, don't shut down. Don't torture yourself.

She had frozen momentarily, and he saw the flicker on her face.

Her eyes finally slid away from his. "He should eat something," she murmured to Eric. And she left.

* * *

She came back the next day. He had tossed and turned all night; his wound throbbed and his throat was raw, but that wasn't what had kept him awake. He wanted to get up and go to her and he was still too weak - he could hardly stand, and it was driving him insane.

But she came back in the morning, carrying a basket of fruit. He knew who it was as soon as she walked in, despite the dark room; he sat up, watching her. She set the basket on the table wordlessly, and then turned and pulled back the shutters, letting the sun stream in. He winced at the bright light.

Blair had always been very good at taking care of people, for all the prickly front she put on. But only the people she cared about. When Chuck had caught croup as a child, he didn't have a mother to sit by his bedside and soothe his burning fever. He had a couple of clumsy maids that popped in to check on him out of duty. Blair had arrived, accompanied by Nate and Serena, as one particular maid was cleaning up the water she'd misguidedly put next to his bed as a token act of nursing.

Chuck had been irritated beyond belief as it was - he remembered how his head had been pounding - and was furious that his friends had arrived and seen him in that state. Chuck Bass was not pathetic.

Nine years old, and Blair had snapped at the maid, ordering her out, and taken control. She'd cleaned up the water herself, forced a defiant Chuck to eat something and yanked open the curtains, ignoring his protests.

He remembered Nate, somewhat bemused - Chuck Bass was letting someone look after him? - commenting that she was downright maternal (a phrase he'd heard the adults use) while Serena actually gushed about how sweet it was.

Chuck and Blair had both glared at them, then, and told them to stop being so ridiculous. Blair was not sweet, and she was definitely not maternal.

He watched, now, as she busied herself cutting up his fruit. He wanted to point out that he hadn't lost the use of his hands, but he knew what game she was playing. She didn't want to talk about it.

So, for now, he would play along. The way to get what you wanted with Blair was never to corner her or challenge her directly; that only made her lash out. He knew how to play her.

She set the fruit on a plate and placed it in front of him. Rolling his eyes, he nonetheless picked up an apple slice and ate it while she watched.

"You still look awful," she informed him finally. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

He glanced at her pale face. "Did you?"

She rolled her eyes back. He was exasperating.

"Just eat your fruit, Bass."

* * *

She came every morning for the next three days. She was always bossy and always forceful. She made him eat, rearranged his room, changed his sheets (when the maid didn't do it properly; the stuttering girl received an earful for that), insisted on flowers and open windows, and even played chess with him.

He knew full well what she was doing. Keeping busy. And he let her. Didn't comment on the fact that she so obviously wasn't sleeping at all, and didn't mention Carter once. He just watched her. They both knew.

He had spoken to Eric when she wasn't there; Carter's body was on the way back to Moscow for his funeral. And he knew full well that they couldn't carry on like this. He had more time, thanks to his wound, but she would have to return to the real world soon.

For now, though, they needed it. She needed it.

He teased her for being domestic and she snapped at him to follow her orders. And, smirking, he did.

"Checkmate."

Her eyes narrowed. Their chess games could last hours; they thought in the same way, plotted the same moves, and refused absolutely to concede to each other. And neither of them were above cheating.

There were only a few pieces left standing on the board by now; their battles always came down to this.

She scowled as she realised he was right; he had, indeed, trapped her king. She was always complaining that the king was the weakest piece. How could it be worth the most points, when everyone knew the queen was really the one with the power? The queen _protected_ the king. The game should be over once the queen was taken; the king shouldn't be allowed to continue without her. He was too weak.

It was the first game Chuck had won. (He'd insisted on every other game that his injury was the reason).

"Luck," Blair scoffed in answer to his satisfied smirk. "I wasn't paying attention."

Chuck just snorted. Blair never let her attention slip for even a second.

Suddenly she stopped. "You're bleeding."

He frowned, following her gaze, and realised that there was a faint dark patch on his shirt where his wound was.

"Did you forget to change you dressing?" Her voice was accusatory.

"It's fine," he grumbled back, twisting to see. He hated changing it; it took so long, and the pain was enough to nearly bring tears to his eyes, which he loathed.

She was suddenly at his side, and, before he could protest, her nimble fingers had slid under his shirt, lifting it up.

"If I'd realised you were that desperate to undress m-"

"Don't say it."

He smirked. She focused on peeling back the bandage instead, and though her touch was warm, the sensation of her fingers on his bare skin sent a shiver down his spine. A good shiver.

He winced, then, at the contact with the sore.

Her touch stilled. "I'm sorry."

He forced a smirk. "Oh, don't stop."

She rolled her eyes, but she touched him again, tentatively, easing the dressing off. He clenched his teeth but didn't make a sound. He knew she could tell, regardless.

She was leaning over him as she reapplied a fresh bandage, and the scent of her hair was enough to distract him from the pain. She sat on the edge of his bed, and he wondered for a second if she was aware of how close she was sitting, how much his heart had suddenly increased in a way that he was fairly sure had nothing to do with pain any more. But she was focused fully on arranging the bandage; she wouldn't do anything by half measures. Her dressing had to be the best.

He couldn't help it, though; she was actually biting her lip in concentration, and he could see it adorably trapped between her teeth; could see the curve of her neck where her hair was swept up, the soft nape exposed to him. He rested his hand on it before she could react, tracing the bare skin with his thumb.

She stopped.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. He kept his hand cupped round the back of her neck.

He wasn't sure who leaned in first; her or him, but then their lips were brushing and his grip tightened gently on the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and his other hand slipped around her waist, tugging her to him on the bed. Her sweet lips parted under his, and it was her hands that curled around his neck, fingers brushing the back of his hair.

God, she'd missed him.

But for some reason, Chuck's touch and the taste of his mouth, his heat, seemed to drive all other thoughts out of her head, replacing them with _want_ and _need_. She needed to be closer to him, wanted him to hold her tighter like he was; and she pressed her body closer, kissing more hungrily. Her body was curled over his now, and she almost forgot to be careful of his wound as he pulled her closer and they tipped back against the pillows, his hot lips devouring hers.

As his hands slid down to grip her waist, running over the soft curves that_ fit_, the phrase flickered in front of him again -_ love you so much it consumes me - _and he knew; knew from his coursing blood to the wild butterflies eating his insides, the way his body _ached_ for hers, that it was true.

He had forgotten about his wound, too; so when she winced in his arms as his hands caressed her back, it confused him for a moment and for a second, muddled, he assumed it was his own pain and pulled back. Her breath had caught, and his had too because he was on the verge of saying it, and it was only when his fingers thoughtlessly tripped over her back again, exploring, and she froze as his fingers ran over a distinct bump - that he stopped.

If it had been nothing (a scratch, perhaps) then she wouldn't have gone as rigid as she did. Frowning, he pulled her over - she made a noise of protest that was muffled as he caught her back, fingers sliding to the fastening of her dress. He pulled it loose before she could react, moving aside the fabric to examine her bare back. There was a large welt running across her spine. If it had been nothing - an accident - she wouldn't be wriggling in his grasp like she was now.

"Get off-"

She squirmed free, struggling to pull her dress back on, to cover up the mark. It should have gone down by now - clearly she'd underestimated how hard Carter had slammed her against the wall.

Chuck grabbed her wrists before she could escape, though, pulling her firmly back down onto the bed. This time, he wasn't letting her get away. His eyes burned into hers, and his grip was warm and secure.

"Blair. What happened that night?" He asked it very slowly, very deliberately. No more avoiding.

"_Nothing_," she hissed, though she knew better than to struggle free. "I told you. Why does it even matter any more? He's gone." To her absolute horror, she realised her eyes were prickling with tears. She was pathetic.

And, worse still, she was breaking down in front of Chuck, and now he would see exactly how weak she was. Not that he didn't already know, but this would just confirm it.

"_Nothing_ happened. I ran away and locked the door before it did." She was trying to glare, now, but the tears staining her brown eyes only made his heart ache. "He nearly got the better of me, and I ran away like a coward. In fact," she tried to laugh, but it just came out as a sob, because she was pathetic, "_Grushnitsky_ ended up saving me. I couldn't even get away myself." Her lip trembled, though she tried to keep her voice fierce. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Blair hated weakness as much as he did. She loathed pity. But it wasn't pity as he slid his hands up her arms to wrap his own around her, pulling her against his chest, and silently buried his lips in her hair. It was hurt; his own hurt, and an instinctive reaction to what he knew she needed.

He held her, so that her tears were soaked up in his shirt, so that her violent trembling was smothered in his arms. Her hand had fisted on the front of his shirt; initially, perhaps, to push him away, but then, as the exhaustion of the past few days finally caught up with her and she gave in, just to cling on.

* * *

**Thanks for your reviews! Sorry if it's not _exactly_ happy CB yet...it's coming! Unfortunately I have a ridiculous amount of work at the moment :( so it may be a couple more days before I update again. I'll try to get the next chapter done soon though.**


	23. Chapter 22 : End

Since long journeys were out of the question with Chuck's injury, the doctor recommended a small coastal town in Abkhazia. He still needed to get his strength back; his wound was hurting no less, and he was tormented by fevers at night.

Staying in Pyatigorsk, given everything that had happened, would not have been a good idea. Grushnitsky had wisely skipped town after giving his evidence.

Blair had to return to Moscow. She'd hidden in Eric's house too long; she needed to go back and sort out the property that was now hers. She had no intention of keeping the house she'd shared with Carter - she was ready to sell it to the nearest buyer. Eric was going with her (a secret relief).

Particularly as she would also have a funeral to attend, and the mere thought of it filled her with dread.

Chuck tried as hard as he could to hide his anger as his possessions were packed up. He was walking by now, and saw no reason why he couldn't return to Russia. He'd told the doctor enough times.

Blair had finally snapped at him to stop being so ridiculous; did he want to bleed to death because his wound had opened again? He'd seen the quiet fear underneath it, though, however hard she tried to hide it. Fear that she'd lose him again. Fear of being separated again.

And it was true; he hadn't been back to Russia for four years, and the thought did unsettle him. He'd grown far too accustomed to running away.

But he wasn't abandoning her again.

It was hard to convince her of that, though, when they were watching their luggage being loaded into different carriages.

"Are you ready to go?" Eric glanced at the waiting footmen as the last bag was thrown on.

Blair nodded.

"I'm just going to lock the house." He left them alone for a final moment.

Chuck Bass did not do tearful farewells. He caught her arm, turning her towards him before she could go. The footman was waiting to help her into the carriage, who he ignored.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily, you know."

She smiled, faintly, but he could still see the flicker of doubt underneath it all. She was trying to convince herself of the same thing.

"Blair."

He kept her hand gripped in his, gazing at her, willing her to believe him.

And, after a moment of searching his face, she did relax. Quietly.

"Just try not to get into any more duels," she said archly. "I won't be there to save you this time."

"Not until I'm fully under your protection again," he promised, smirking. "Anyway," he pulled a face, "Gunshot wounds are hardly becoming."

She narrowed her eyes. "And make sure you change your dressing. Every day. No excuses."

His mouth twitched and he was tempted to reply _yes, wife - _but something about the word made him pause.

She suddenly leaned in, almost on tiptoes, and kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft as he responded, catching her waist for a moment; and then she pulled away, eyes bright.

"Get better." The way she said it was almost a warning.

His mouth curled up, slightly, as he squeezed her hand one last time. For some reason, he was finding speaking difficult.

Eric came up behind him, and he was forced to hand her over, into the carriage.

"I'll look after her," the young man assured him once she was in.

Chuck managed to find his voice again. What was wrong with him? "Thank you." They both knew he wasn't only talking about that.

Eric just nodded, though his smile was warm. "Don't be too long. And look after yourself."

Chuck rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You too, van der Woodsen."

Eric embraced him, briefly, and then climbed in behind Blair. Chuck watched in silence as the carriage drove away from him.

* * *

It was cold in Moscow, the house dark and empty. Blair only went in to supervise the packing of her possessions, Eric's presence at her side a welcome warmth. If not exactly the warmth she ached for.

She was going to have everything sent home - to Petersburg.

She'd received a letter from her mother, expressing her condolences but stating that she was unfortunately too busy to make it to Moscow for the funeral. Hiding her relief (not that she was particularly surprised) Blair had written back to say that she would be coming home. Her room would be waiting for her when she returned.

Avoiding the house in Moscow also meant she was able to avoid any well-wishers coming to share their sympathies for the death of her husband. Until the funeral, that was.

Blair dressed dutifully in black, and was grateful for the veil that concealed her face. She was shaking in the church, and she let people think it was from grief. She made her appearance for the service - which, admittedly, could have been worse; it was a fairly standard funeral - and then she only had to show her face briefly for the reception before she managed to get away from it all.

Then it was truly over.

* * *

It took another two weeks in Moscow for everything else to be sorted; Carter's will was read, and, since he had entrusted nothing to any of his 'friends', everything that he'd owned passed to his next of kin - Blair.

Eric received a letter informing him that he needed to report for duty in Ryzan the next day. He was hesitant, promising to see Blair home first, but she shook her head and insisted that she would be fine.

She'd been trying to act like she was_ fine_, like she didn't miss Chuck unbearably or spend every hour of every day thinking, worrying about him. Like she wasn't terrified of the prospect of returning home, alone, for the first time in so long.

Eric didn't really believe her, but she was set. And Blair always got her way.

She embraced him tightly before she left, making him swear to write - _at least _every week, van der Woodsen - and he squeezed her back. He would be in Petersburg again for the summer.

Then she climbed into the carriage, trying to ease the tension in her body as she settled back into the seat. She had a long journey before she even got there. She could do it.

* * *

As she saw the familiar looming bulk of the Winter Palace, however, she was on the edge of her seat. She knew it was stupid. The truth was, that as they rumbled through the streets she recognised, painfully, she was overwhelmed with pangs of homesickness. This was the city that she'd grown up in; the city that she'd loved. It was home.

But she was still scared; she'd avoided it for so long, and she'd left it so miserable. And it surprised her, now, how comforting it was to see it all again. Even from inside the carriage; she realised she was half yearning to be outside, walking the broad stone streets again.

At last they pulled into her own avenue, and she swallowed back a lump of nervousness at the thought of seeing her mother again. The carriage came to a stop across the road, and she stepped out, straightening. She would be fine.

She turned to take in the familiar shape of her house - and it was then that she stopped.

Leaning against another elegant carriage, directly in front of her house, was a figure. She had to blink for a second, but there could be no mistaking it. Her heart was suddenly pounding.

A pair of dark eyes were watching her, mouth quite clearly quirked in gentle amusement as he took in her surprise. She moved, slowly, towards him, taking in the bunch of peonies in his hand.

"Why aren't you in Abkhazia?" she demanded first, question tumbling out as she stood in front of him.

He was_ here_. In Petersburg.

"I was," he answered calmly as he closed the gap between them. "For far too long."

"Chuck," she protested, "Your wound-"

"-Is fine." He went on before she could argue, "The doctor himself said so. I even had his permission for the journey."

She couldn't argue with that, so she asked instead, "What are you _doing_ here?"

He was meant to be staying Abkhazia for at least a month. How had he even known -

He smiled, faintly, but his voice was low. "I never got the chance to tell you you were right," he admitted softly. "I've spent too long playing the coward."

He'd failed to tell her before; he was going to make sure she knew now. The pretty little town in Abkhazia had driven him insane; the only reason he'd made himself go on the stupid, lonely walks outside (the doctor had recommended them) had been so that he could hurry up and get better. Get to her.

He'd been even more scared of returning than she had. But, looking at her now, he was surprised at how easy it was. What had he been so worried about? What had he even been running away from?

She stared up at him. Technically, he'd already _shown_ her that he wasn't a coward. But for Chuck, doing something and actually admitting it to her were two different things. Actually saying the words.

So her voice caught, slightly, as she took him in. "Oh."

Oh? _Oh? _Her brain was screaming at her now - what kind of a response was that?

His mouth curled up again, and she couldn't stop hers curling too. Because they were home, in Petersburg, and he was _here_.

He looked at her, still that trace of a smile, though the intensity his dark eyes actually made her heart squirm. He moved even closer, and her heart was thudding because she knew and he knew.

"I love you too." He said it quietly, easily, and he couldn't stop smiling as he did, finally admitting it.

For a split second, she registered the _too_ - he'd heard her? - and then, unable to stop smiling either, she moved straight into his arms, her own wrapping around his neck as he caught her waist, kissing him as he kissed her back.

They were finally in each others' arms, where they belonged, and neither of them were going anywhere.

* * *

**Thanks for the reviews from the last chapter! Feedback on this one would be much appreciated :)  
This is technically the final chapter...but I'm considering an epilogue; I've enjoyed writing this so much! **


	24. Epilogue

"_Of course_ she looks exquisite. The dress if from Italy - have you seen the detail on the back? Turn around, Blair, let them see." Blair turned obediently at her mother's command, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. The other guests oohed and aahed accordingly, and Blair felt increasingly like an ornament on display. But then she always did with her mother.

"It was such a beautiful wedding, Eleanor," one of them smarmed, and Eleanor allowed herself a satisfied smile.

"And such a handsome couple!"

Blair smiled sweetly, concealing her irritation at their incessant fawning. Not that she would ever begrudge compliments, but they should at least be properly given. Preferably _not _aimed at her mother, who was standing there taking credit for them like it was all her doing.

"A perfect match," Eleanor agreed smugly. "As if we would settle for anything less."

_Good God, mother. _Blair bit her lip in exasperation as she scanned the room, searching for a pair of dark eyes that would understand, a smirk that would make the whole thing amusing.

A warm arm suddenly wrapped itself around her waist, cutting her search short as a voice murmured in her ear, "Looking for someone?"

Her breath caught for a second, and then she couldn't stop the smile from spreading at his familiar face and the gleam in his eye. He grinned back at her, and, just like that, the tension in her body was gone as she settled into the heat of his.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor, but I'll have to steal my bride away," he announced, squeezing her waist wickedly as his thumb traced patterns that no one else could see, "It's late."

He flashed his charming smile, but he was already leading her away before an appeased Eleanor could even finish saying, "Of course, Charles."

Blair allowed him to propel her across the room, waiting till they were out of earshot before slipping her hand into his and enquiring wryly, "Couldn't wait to get your hands on your new bride?"

His eyes were soft as he ran his thumb over the wedding ring, three interlinked bands of gold, on her finger, and answered with a smirk, "You're welcome." [1]

She squeezed his hand back, feeling his own wedding ring, and they exchanged another grin.

She caught a glimpse of their reflection in the paneled mirror just before they exited the ballroom; two dark heads and brown eyes complimenting each other, set off by the rich purple detail in both their clothes; her small frame fit snugly against his; pale complexions flushed with _happiness - _and she had to admit that there was something beautiful about both of them together. Her with him.

Chuck followed her gaze, his eyes resting on her reflection before he pulled her even closer and he murmured teasingly, softly into her, "A _very _handsome couple."

* * *

She was feeling mischievous (she was sure it had something to do with the fact that she couldn't stop smiling like an idiot) as they climbed into the carriage, Chuck handing her up, warm hands brushing her waist. Before he had even sat down properly, though, she had moved to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her lips in his. Grinning even into the kiss, he pulled her onto his lap, hands curving around her little waist as her lips parted under his, sweet and soft and Blair.

She felt a shiver of pleasure as his hands slid under her wedding dress, caressing her thighs in search of bare skin, and he muttered into her, "Too many clothes."

She laughed, lightly, though it was muffled as she kissed his lips, his jaw, his neck, her own lips hungry for his taste as her hands curled around his collar.

His hands slid higher, and she stopped, then, realising where they were, and broke the kiss, breathless, unable to stop her fingers tracing his cheeks, holding his face in her hands. "Not here," she insisted, but she was still smiling, her breathing still caught and her body pressed to his, which he rather felt belied her demand. And gave him perfect justification for his hands to continue their hungry path.

She wriggled away, her own hands reaching for his wrists to stop him, though she couldn't help herself kissing him again, murmuring in between, "I said...not...here." She managed the semblance of an imperious glare. "Do you really want to consummate our marriage in a moving vehicle?"

He opened his mouth to say he just wanted to consummate their marriage, but the carriage jolted, sending her back on top of him and knocking the breath out of both of them temporarily. He recovered first, grinning as his hands crept around her waist and he answered, "Well, it would seem you do."

That earned him a light slap, of course, and he winced even though he really quite enjoyed it when she hit him.

She settled herself back in her seat, narrowing her eyes at him. "Not here."

If she kissed him again, she knew her resolve wouldn't be so strong. And she really didn't want to lose her virginity in a carriage. Her ration reminded her of this, though her body was reminding her Chuck was mere inches away, and she still had his taste on her lips.

Chuck pulled a face; she was a tease. He was sure it was deliberate, the way her lips were pursed now into an an adorable pout and her skirt was still slightly rucked. _She_ was the one who had started it - he'd been set to wait till they got home before she started kissing him.

He leaned over before she could protest, hand brushing her leg - "Chuck!" - and settling on her thigh, but only to rearrange her skirt.

He smiled innocently. "Just tidying you up." He didn't move his hand, though, and when she went to remove it (because its heat was doing nothing for her resolve), he opened it up and caught her fingers in his instead. "Am I allowed to hold my wife's hand until we get home?"

She didn't quite manage to scowl at him properly (her mouth twitched too much), and then she relented and curled her hand in his, and they spent the rest of the journey, fingers twined between them.

* * *

She didn't realise she was actually nervous till Chuck set her down on the bed and she felt a tremor pass through her. Her earlier mischief had disappeared now - because it was really going to happen - and she suddenly felt very exposed in front of him. He didn't miss the tremble for a second, and for a moment he just gazed down at her, and, as she gazed back up into his dark eyes, reassuring, and remembered that it was _Chuck_, her nerves calmed a little.

And she experienced a shiver of an entirely different nature as he closed the gap between them, kneeling on the bedspread to cover her lips with his, his arms framing her as she clung to him, kissing him back.

He lay her down on the bed, his body following hers as he deepened the kiss and her arms tightened around his neck. He cradled her head, his own brushing hers, and his lips, his mouth were hot against hers, his breath melding with hers. He pressed her closer, even closer, their bodies crushed together, and she was hardly thinking anymore as she gripped the back of his shirt, holding on.

He paused then, lifting his head away to gaze down at her, still holding her. Asking her silently - even then - if she was sure. Her hands squeezed his shirt, and, though her stomach was fluttering and her heart pounding, she moved her head up to his, capturing his lips again. She was sure.

He buried his fingers in her hair, pulling her as close as he could, and he kissed her neck, her collarbone, adoring the taste. His hand slid up under her dress, gentle, firm, making her shiver against him, and he kissed her shoulder, lips finding bare skin as he moved to the dress fastenings, slowly pulling them open and removing the outer layers.

Her fingers trembled, but they were determined, seeking, as they slipped to his shirt, undoing the buttons. Chuck shrugged it off for her as her fingers traced the planes of his chest, running over the warm skin as he tugged off the last of her clothes.

He drank her in, every inch of her; and he couldn't help but wonder how all of her could possibly be _his_. She was reaching for him, though, pressing her body up into his - and so he found her mouth again, then kissed her exposed stomach, lips hot against the bare, smooth skin, then moved down, holding her all the while, tracing a slow, hungry line of kisses. She moaned softly. Arched her back, into him, and he held her closer, soothing her.

He kissed her - there - his hair brushing her stomach, his tongue...

He kept kissing her, moving back up, gentle, hot, reaching her lips again. He held her, gripping her hips gently as she moved against him and he slid into her. She gasped into his mouth, then - buried her slender fingers into his hair, wrapping her arms round him, fingers sliding down to press into his back as he filled her.

He kept pulling her just as close, hungrily exploring, touching her, his legs tangled with hers, his hips against hers, and his dark eyes were locked on hers the whole time, still drinking her in. He seemed to know exactly where to touch to make her shiver against him and momentarily forget the pain in the pleasure, whole body tingling - and his lips were so hot and he tasted so sharp and delicious and Chuck.

They groaned into each other's mouths as they climaxed at the same time, Blair's fingers digging in to the bare skin on Chuck's back.

Then they lay there, still entwined, the heat of his chest under her cheek, one hand wrapped, safe, on the small of her back, the other threaded through hers, clinging on to each other, her head tucked under the crook of his chin.

* * *

Nikolai (or Nicholas, as he insisted people call him - because it was less foreign and strange, and otherwise, the boys kept calling him a Cossack) was helping himself to some pastries from the sample table when he saw her. The winter fair was a French one, a celebration of Noël - whatever that was; his French tutor had no patience for him - and he adored the sweet, flaky cakes beyond anything else. He didn't often get them. But he stopped, another handful halfway to his mouth, when he saw the little girl across the way. She reminded him of a little china doll; flawless dark curls and milky skin, wide brown eyes framed by long lashes, a spotless white dress. And he blushed as he decided she was the prettiest girl he'd seen in his nine years.

She was busy looking at beads, examining the bright colours, but, just as he was gaping at her, she looked up and saw him. He smiled foolishly back and made up his mind to go over to her, because Papa had always taught him to be brave and Mama was always saying his dimples were adorable. Being the baby of the family had its advantages.

He thrust his hand out. "Pleased to meet you."

She paused, looking at his sticky fingers, at the crumbs surrounding his mouth - and then at his deep blue eyes and golden locks. So she decided she would be generous, and allowed him to take her hand in his, if only for a moment.

"What's your name?" he asked with another wide smile.

She blinked. "Anastasia Charl'sovna Bassov," she said at last.

He paused, because her accent was foreign but strangely familiar, and it took him a second to realise it was the same as his parents'. His eyes widened.

"Are you Russian?"

She drew her little frame up, clearly proud. "Yes. I am here on holiday."

His Russian was shaky at best, despite his parents' encouragement to learn his native tongue - but it was better than his French, and it didn't stop him from blurting eagerly in the same language, tripping over the words, "I'm Nikolai!"

And he was rewarded when she graced him with a surprised smile. He'd impressed her, and it made him beam.

They were still smiling at each other when they heard a whoop, and, to Nikolai's dismay, his older brothers arrived, exuberant and boisterous as ever.

"Nicky! Have you found yourself a beau?" Boris grinned as he nudged his little brother, hard, and Ivan slapped him on the back.

Nikolai flushed furiously - "No! Stop teasing me!" - while Anastasia took in the two older boys with disdain, noting that while they had the same golden hair, they were even messier than Nikolai, and far too noisy for her liking.

"So, who's this?" The taller of the two (though they were all very tall, really) had turned his attention to her, flashing his own dimples.

Before she could answer, though, a familiar, accented voice interjected, "No one you are worthy of speaking to."

She rolled her eyes, and, sure enough, her twin brother was next to her, glaring at the blond boys despite their height.

Boris stiffened as the insult sunk in, and it made Anastasia giggle before she could help it - and, seeing her, Nikolai couldn't help but laugh too, because she had such as nice smile.

His own laugh earned him a thump from his older brother, and he covered his mouth guiltily, but both Anastasia and even the dark-haired boy grinned at him because of it.

So he decided he didn't really care.

"Alexander! Anastasia!"

They were interrupted by a woman's voice calling in Russian, and Nikolai looked up to see a beautiful lady in a rich blue dress, dark hair swept up. It was the man at her side that made him gulp, though; equally fashionably dressed, with dark, commanding eyes. Eyes that were narrowed on him, and his proximity to Anastasia.

Anastasia, however, pulled him forwards, even further into the adults' gaze.

"Papa, this is Nikolai; he speaks Russian!" Her own Russian was so fluent, Nikolai had to struggle to keep up. And he was amazed at how easily she addressed the intimidating man. That was her father?

They were all looking at him now, dark eyes all fixed on him, and there must have been something wrong with him - was his shirt untucked again? - because the adults were frowning slightly now, exchanging glances with each other.

The man asked him something in Russian, but he was feeling so muddled that he couldn't make sense of it. So he just blinked, shifting on his feet.

The man switched to English, then, and Nikolai breathed a silent sigh of relief as he realised it was a question he knew the answer to - "What's your name, boy?"

His voice still fumbled, though, as he answered, "Nikolai Archibald." And - oh no, he must have somehow answered the wrong thing, because the adults were looking at each other again. "I mean..."

What _did_ he mean?

Thankfully, he was saved by the voice of his mother calling _him_ - a sound that he had never been more relieved to hear.

He turned and ran straight into her arms, not caring how childish it was to bury himself in her skirts; his mama never told him off, and she was never scary. She always made everything better.

She ruffled his blond curls, laughing. "What's wrong, Kolya?" Ordinarily he protested when she called him the Russian short form of his name - he preferred the English Nick because it was _normal_, but this time he didn't complain. "What have you..."

Her voice suddenly trailed off.

"Blair?" It was almost a whisper; shocked. "And...Chuck?"

Nikolai looked up in confusion. His mother was staring at the dark-haired couple, and had gone very pale.

"Is that really you?" She had reverted to Russian, and Nikolai had to strain to keep up.

All of the children were watching, now; even his brothers had fallen silent for once.

"Serena." The brunette was staring back at her.

The man spoke next, and Nikolai noticed dimly that he had moved closer to his wife without seeming to realise it, almost protective. "Where's Nate?"

Serena faltered at the reminder, looking between the two of them, looking at Blair though she hardly could. "He's buying port," she mumbled. Then, suddenly, voice choking, she whispered, "Blair...I'm so sorry."

It sounded pathetic even to her ears, as she stared helplessly at her former best friend, on the verge of tears.

There was a silence.

Then Blair did something no one - except perhaps Chuck, because they exchanged the swiftest of glances before she did - was expecting. She moved forwards, silently, and hugged her best friend.

Serena was absolutely stunned for a second, but so unbelievably relieved that she clung back, and she was crying now.

"I'm so sorry," she was mumbling again, arms wrapped around her best friend. "I didn't think you'd ever want to see me again - I thought you'd hate me forever - and I know you have every reason to, and what I did was awful - the worst thing I could ever do-"

Blair glanced up at her, silencing her with a faint smile. "It's in the past."

"But-" Serena couldn't comprehend it. She knew she didn't deserve anything like this from Blair - and it was _Blair_. Blair did not forgive and forget. Or at least, the Blair she'd known didn't.

"I missed my best friend," Blair said softly, simply.

"I missed you too," Serena whispered back with a watery smile, wiping her eyes. "You have no idea how much."

By this stage, a very lost Nikolai had given up trying to work out what was going on. Adults were always doing strange things, talking about odd things that he simply didn't understand.

He glanced shyly at Anastasia, since the adults were occupied - was his mother _hugging _the scary dark-haired man now? - and smiled at her.

"You know," he mumbled, "There's an ice-skating area that they set up at the back. Do you want to go?"

Anastasia paused, and then she smiled back, slipping her hand in to his. "I do."

And, for once unnoticed by the adults, who were distracted by Nate's arrival - was the scary dark-haired man actually_ smiling_ at him? - they walked off, hand in hand.

* * *

[1] Traditional Russian wedding rings are made of three bands of gold - white gold, red gold, and yellow gold - linked together.

**First of all, sorry it took me a while to write this! In the original epilogue I planned, it was just going to be the final part of this with Nate and Serena. But then I read everyone's reviews, and realised I probably should write about their wedding night too. I've never written smut before (though I guess this isn't all _that_ smutty) so please tell me if it's awful; I couldn't take it seriously when I tried to write anything more graphic. I'm worried it's a bit _too_ romantic (and kind of vague)...specially since it's Chuck and Blair. **

**And a final thank you to all my reviewers: abelard, Bye11, ronan03, LittleDancer-123x, GGirl_CB4BW, LisaLevine, guardian izz, Manoella Nascimento, mary1415, Ann, PattyWoods, Michaellllla, GossipGirlFanForever, philologique, klara, alma-gglover, Lalai, sarah LJ, KB22, Stella296, WaldorfWannabe1812, The Very Last Valkyrie, xoxogg4lifexoxo, crd-crd, Scarlett Forest, Princess Persephone, ggloverxx19, cakebakery, hngauthier, EmilyEcstatic, Lena Belle, batgirl2992, and Seriouslyhappy - for sticking with the story and taking the time to give feedback :) It has been so appreciated!**


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